1* 


U2TIV.   OF  CALIF.   LIBRARY,   LOS  ANGELES 


VILLAGE 


BY 


LOUISE  LYNDON  SIBLEY 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

«$*,  Camiribge 
1901 


COPYRIGHT,  1901,  BY  LOUISE  LYNDON  SIBLEY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Published  October,  zqoz 


£o  tup  lju.s  banD. 


2132970 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAOB 

I.  A  KITCHEN  COURT 1 

II.  IVYWYND 11 

III.  THE  DOG  WATCH 21 

IV.  THE  TOP  PLATE 26 

V.  ROBINSON  CRUSOE     .        .        .        .        .  35 

VI.  HEART  ISLAND 48 

VII.  Avis  PRISCILLA 59 

VIII.  A  CARETAKER 65 

IX.  PHTT.T.Y 76 

X.   A  RADICAL 80 

XI.  ILLNESS  AT  IVYWYND       ....  83 

XII.  WHITE  LAYLOCKS 86 

XIII.  THE  HAT  OF  HIS  PRIDE   ....  95 

XIV.  ONE  SIDE  OF  A  LOVE  STORY        .        .  108 
XV.  TOLD  BY  Two 112 

XVI.  A  GLADSTONE  BAG        ....  117 

XVII.   THE  FALL  OF  ANGEL        .        .        .        .121 

XVIII.  A  LIGHTHOUSE  STEW    ....  125 

XIX.  His  FAVORITE  TUNE  .  .  .  .132 

XX.  HONORABLE  JACKSON  JONES  .  .  .  137 

XXI.  ALICE  143 


A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 


CHAPTER  I 

A   KITCHEN    COURT 

His  fat  pony  strayed  promptly  down  the 
road  when  Captain  Gibson  went  up  the  gar- 
den path  to  Mrs.  Padelford's  back  door. 
But  presently  the  pony  stopped  and  looked 
round  at  the  captain  racing  back  down  the 
path.  They  always  did  this.  The  captain 
turned  the  buggy  in  a  big  circle  that  swept 
both  sidewalks,  scolding  comfortably  to 
himself. 

"  I  've  as  gret  a  mind  as  ever  I  hed  to  eat 
to  jest  try  a  genuyne  slip-noose  on  ye,  ye 
durned  ole  bag  o'  bones,  an'  let  ye  hang 
yeself,  I  be,"  he  said,  patting  the  pony  and 
carefully  tying  a  knot  that  a  gale  of  wind 
could  n't  loosen. 


2         A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

There  was  a  visitor  before  him  at  Mrs. 
Padelford's.  Ethan  Benedict's  loose  bulk 
was  tilted  against  the  wall  on  the  back  legs 
of  a  chair,  and  he  was  talking.  ,  Mrs.  Padel- 
ford  was  not  exactly  listening,  but  she 
cheered  him  on  occasionally  from  the  depths 
of  the  pantry,  where  she  went  on  with  her 
work.  When  some  unforeseen  crash  of 
pans  had  obscured  his  remarks  she  called 
"  How  ?  "  after  the  din.  "  You  go  right 
on,  Ethan,  I  can  hear  ye,  how  did  ye  say 
they  did  ? "  Ethan  was  just  telling  how, 
when  Captain  Gibson  came  in  and  bestowed 
himself  opposite  to  Ethan,  an  audience  with 
time  to  sit  down.  Captain  Gibson  could 
talk  when  his  turn  came,  but  his  most  en- 
dearing accomplishment  was  listening.  He 
sat  with  his  fine  old  gray  head  on  one  side, 
his  weather-beaten  face  fairly  written  upon 
with  good-natured  interest.  The  captain 
carried  about  with  him  a  store  of  encourag- 
ing and  appreciative  exclamations,  not  very 
carefully  assorted  in  meaning,  but  dealt  out 


A  KITCHEN  COUET  3 

with  an  emphasis  nicely  befitting  the  occa- 
sion and  forming  a  background  of  luminous 
interest  against  the  dimmest  narrative  of  the 
least  interesting  narrator. 

"  I  was  tellin'  Mis'  Padelford  'bout  the 
Jordan's  wreck,  las'  night,"  said  Ethan. 

"  My  Lord  !  "  said  Captain  Gibson,  eager 
and  beaming. 

"  That  old  schooner  we  seen  layin'  off  to 
the  east'ard  " — 

"Eggsackly!"  , 

"  'Long  the  aige  the  evenin'  she 
busted  "  — 

"  That 's  so,  sir,  jest  so !  " 

"  Into  a  sand-digger  that  had  n't  oughter 
ben  off'n  the  nest,  sech  a  night  as  't  was." 

"  Quite  right,  sir,  quite  right." 

"An'  next  thing  she  piled  onto  the 
beach"  — 

"  My  conscience ! " 

"  Down  below  the  light !  " 

"  Below  the  light ;   of   course ;  jest  so, 


sir." 


"  Well,  I  wuz  abed  myself,  'long  'bout 
the  tail  end  o'  my  watch,  an'  ole  Jordan  he 
hauled  me  up  a-banging  on  the  door  an' 
hollerin'"  — 

"  I  want  to  know  !  " 

"  For  me  to  git  up  an'  set  out  his  watch 
while  he  fixed  them  men.  There  warn't 
nothin'  to  eat  in  the  house  "  — 

"Well,  weU,  that's  too  bad,"  from  the 
captain. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Mrs.  Padelford  at 
the  pantry  door.  "  I  told  you  them  Jordans 
allers  did  sail  close  to  the  wind  on  vittles." 

"Well,"  said  Ethan,  coming  down  onto 
the  front  legs  of  his  chair  with  a  bang, 
"Well,  sir!  there  was  ole  Jordan  standin' 
on  his  head,  never  did  know  nothin'  an' 
could  n't  tell  nobody  half  o'  that "  — 

"  Lord ! " 

"  By  George,  the  sight  o'  that  man  does 
rile  me  so  I  —  I  —  I  —  Well,  I  don't  care 
a  cuss,  s'  long  as  he  don't  sass  me,  but 
he 's  the  devil  an'  ah*  to  live  on  an  island 
with  "  — 


A  KITCHEN  COURT  5 

«  Sho  !  you  don't  teU  me !  " 

"  An'  keep  a  light  under." 

"  Mean  man,"  said  Mrs.  Padelford  at  the 
pantry  door.  "  Can't  say  nothin'  too  bad 
of  him.  He 's  holler  an'  he 's  bad  clean 
through  to  daylight  on  the  other  side. 
Well,  what  did  them  men  do  for  vittles, 
Ethan  ?  " 

"  Well,  ole  Mis'  Jordan  she  set  out  some 
crackers  an'  milk,  an'  they  eat  that "  — 

"Lord!" 

"  Oh,  I  seen  'em  through  the  winder ;  I 
warn't  settin'  up  in  no  lantern  that  time,  I 
tell  yer,  an'  ole  Jordan  he  fetched  'em  up 
some  cider  apple  sauce  an'  they  eat  that,  an' 
all  the  time  them  men  wuz  wet  to  the  skin, 
wet  an'  blue !  blue  as  brimston' !  I  tell 
ye!" 

"  Orter  hed  hot  vittles,"  cried  Mrs.  Padel- 
ford inside  the  pantry.  "  She  'd  orter  cooked 
'em  up  a  mess  er  suthin'." 

"  Well,  Maria,  she  was  hoppin'  mad,  an' 
she  wanted  to,  but  't  warn't  mornin',  an'  the 


6          A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

ole  lady  wouldn't.  Well,  come  daylight 
an*  'long  slack  the  tide  an'  wind  kinder 
blowed  the  fiery  aige  off  of  her,  them  men 
they  run  the  ole  man's  dory  down  an'  out 
an'  mosied  roun'  that  ole  drowned  wrack 
till  they  turned  up  a  seal  top  can  of  coffee, 
an'  come  ashore  with  it !  " 

"  My  conscience  sake  alive ! " 

"  Oh,  I  was  a-layin'  f  er  'em,  I  tell  ye  what, 
'side  the  tower,  an'  I  heel  a  good  can  con- 
densed milk  an'  a  leetle  mite  o'  sugar  in  a 
baig  to  go  in  their  pocket,  you  know,  so  's 
not  to  rile  the  ole  lady  too  bad,  her  seein' 
of  it"  — 

"  Of  course  !     Quite  right ;  yes,  sir  !  " 

"  An'  I  laid  for  the  foremost  feller  an'  I 
give  it  to  him,  by  gosh,  an'  bet  yer  life  he 
did  n't  say,  '  No,  thank  ye.'  Moses !  them 
men  wuz  hungry !  That 's  what  they  wuz  ! 
An'  cold ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  so  they  wuz  !  " 

"  An'  I  says  to  the  foremost  feller,  I  says, 
'  Look  a-here,  old  boy,'  I  says, l  if  I  run  this 


A  KITCHEN  COURT  7 

ere  lighthouse  myself/  says  I,  '  I  'd  butter 
yer  bread  four  sides/  says  I,  ( damn  it ! '  I 
ain't  no  eight-day  saint  myself  "  — 

"  Of  course  not !     No,  sir  ! " 

"  An'  I  ain't  no  —  Lord,  I  jest  hed  a  front 
tooth  hauled  out,  an'  kills  me  ter  talk.  An' 
I  ain't  no  Sunday  man,  neither." 

"Eggsackly!" 

"  But  I  swan  I  ain't  so  bad  as  ole  Jordan. 
He 's  the  devil  himself." 

"  There,  there,  Ethan,  you  mus'  n't  git  so 
mad,"  said  Mrs.  Padelf ord,  soothingly,  mov- 
ing about  within  easy  hailing  distance,  now. 
"  I  don't  mean  to  blaspheme  no  man's  char- 
acter myself,  not  ole  Mis'  Jordan  nor  no- 
buddy  else  "  — 

"  Oh,  I  '11  let  him  alone  long  as  he  don't 
give  me  no  back  chin !  " 

"  Of  course  !     Quite  so  ! " 

"  But  you  do  kinder  f orgit  yourself, 
Ethan,  onct  in  a  while,"  said  Mrs.  Padel- 
ford.  "Mr.  Jordan  is  a  feller  bean  an' 
you  got  to  live  with  him,  or  throw  up  your 


8          A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

job.  An'  so  them  poor  fellers  did  git  their 
supper  —  or  breakfast.  An'  who  got  the 
pickin's  out  o'  the  vessil,  Ethan  ?  " 

"  Lord !  who  d'  ye  s'pose  ?  Why,  Jordan 
did.  Grabbed  every  darned  thing  come 
ashore,  an'  he  '11  hang  onto  it,  too,  all  the 
law  '11  let  him." 

"Well!  well!  well!" 

"  Well,  there  's  one  way  o'  lookin'  at  it. 
If  Jordan 's  the  meanest  man  on  top  the 
ground,  there  ain't  nary  other." 

"  That  's  a  fact.  That 's  so,  sir.  Yes,  sir. 
I  've  knocked  round  consid'ble,  fore  an'  by, 
an'  it 's  my  exper'ence  that  folks  along 
shore  or  anyways  connected  with  salt  water 
is  most  gen'ly  folks  with  bowels.  They  '11 
kill  'emselves  ter  help  a  man  an'  never  know 
they  done  it.  Now  I  recklect  I  see  a  piece  in 
the  paper  after  the  Mary  Etta  went  down. 
I  seen  her  when  we  wuz  joggin'  'long  same 
gale  off  the  Salv-ages.  I  seen  her  flag  half 
mast,  an*  thinks  I,  here 's  a  mess,  but  we  got 
to  do  it.  Got  to  do  somethin'.  So  we 


A  KITCHEN  COURT  9 

double-reefed  the  mainsail  an'  took  the 
bonnet  off'n  the  jib  an'  run  in  by  inside  the 
Salv-ages,  calc'latin'  t'  anchor,  an'  I  dunno 
how  we  done  it,  but  we  did.  We  sent  off 
a  dory.  Same  gale  took  two  sticks  clear 
out'n  the  Lizzie  Jane.  Well,  the  Mary  Etta 
fellers  wuz  jest  all  bunged  up,  by  thunder  ! 
I  'lowed  they  'd  fall  apart  'fore  we  landed 
'em,  but  the  citizens  an'  wimming  folks  took 
a  holt  an'  fetched  them  fellers  through. 
An'  there  warn't  no  hospital  in  town,  nor  a 
doctor  but  one.  An'  I  see  the  piece  in  the 
paper  awhile  after  talked  'bout  the  noble 
conduct  o'  the  citizens  o'  Rockhaven,  an'  so 
forth  down  the  colyume.  Lord !  lots  o' 
folks  hez  got  folks  at  sea  round  these  parts, 
an'  I  tell  you  when  the  wind  whistles  it  hits 
more  'n  one  woman's  heart  —  an'  man's. 
So  ole  Jordan  seems  to  be  kinder  off,  that 
way." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  as  much.  He  's  a 
regular  ole  —  Come  right  in,  Captain 
Bunce,  spread  yerself !  Come  jest  in  time 
to  help  us  cuss !  " 


And  Ethan  filled  his  pipe,  and  Captain 
Bunce  filled  his  pipe,  and  Captain  Gibson 
filled  his  pipe,  and  they  threshed  again  the 
barren  grain  of  Mr.  Jordan's  soul. 

Mrs.  Padelford  became  stationary.  She 
yearned  visibly  for  news  of  the  captain  since 
his  last  visit. 

"  The  last  time  you  was  here,"  she  said, 
"  you  did  n't  hev  no  carpets  down,  nor  no 
hens.  How 's  your  wife  like  where  you 
be?" 


CHAPTEK  II 

IVYWYND 

"  WELL,"  said  Captain  Bunce,  "  you  see 
we  ben  livin'  over  to  Ivywynd  'bout  year  'n'  a 
half  now,  day  after  Decoration.  We  moved 
right  out  as  soon  as  I  could  buy  up  a  house 
after  I  took  out  my  papers  for  capt'n.  An' 
I  dunno  how  't  is,  but  what  with  intrist  on 
the  mortgage,  an'  car  fares,  an'  one  thing  or 
'nother,  seems  as  if  I  warn't  no  ways  better 
off  than  I  wuz  afore.  An'  gittin'  three 
hundred  dollars  more  capt'n  than  I  gut 
secont  mate.  When  we  wuz  livin'  over  back 
the  Charlestown  Navy  Yard  we  warn't 
payin'  but  twenty  dollars  rent  fur  a  whole 
house,  —  but  we  got  ten  dollars  f er  the 
upper  floor.  We  let  one  o'  the  floors  the 
whole  time,  top  or  bottom.  Well,  wife  says 


12        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

we  can't  let  none  o'  the  house  we  got  now 
out  to  Ivywynd —  says  't  ain't  jest  the  thing, 

—  I   b'lieve   that 's  what  she  says  ;   it 's  a 
kind  of  a  sooburb,  Ivywynd   is,  out'n  the 
city  a  little  ways  on  the  B.  &  M.  road  — 
awful  sight  more  stylish  than  the  Charles- 
town  deestrict,  where  we  've  kep'  house  ever 
sence  we  wuz  married.     Sa'r  Lizzie  an'  me 
we  've  fetched  up  our  whole  fambly  there 
fer   nineteen    years.     An'  wife   says   there 
don't  nobody  out  to  Ivywynd  let  their  upper 
floor.     But   I   hain't  got  no  fault   to  find 
with  that,  ef  that 's  what  a  sooburb  is  for 

—  only  it  beats  me  what  that 's  got  to  do 
long  o'  my  lettin'  piece  my  prop'ty  ef  I  see 
fit  to.     Well,  so  my  livin'  expenses  is  jest 

—  well  —  jest  a  little  mite  more,  I  guess, 
than  they  wuz  when  I  wuz  gittin'  six  hun- 
dred a  year,  long  back  two  years  ago. 

"  My  folks  hez  ben  at  me  fer  long  time 
ter  hev  'em  a  house  in  the  sooburbs.  Mostly 
Melia  't  was,  my  oldest  girl,  an'  all  the  girl 
I  got.  So  she  an'  wife  they  went  an'  they 


IVYWYND  13 

picked  out  one  they  said  ud  do  'em,  an' 
warn't  nothin'  fer  me  to  do  but  buy  it,  so  I 
did.  An'  my  Lord  !  they  jest  moved  in  an' 
set  out  to  spread  over  the  whole  of  it. 
Lemme  see,  there's  the  kitchen,  an'  the 
dinin'  room  ez  they  call  it,  but  we  hev  our 
supper 'n'  breakfast  there  too.  An'  the 
parlor,  them  's  on  the  fust  floor.  Upstairs 
there 's  my  room  an'  Sa'r  Lizzie's,  that 's 
one ;  an'  Sammie's,  that 's  two  ;  an'  Melia's ; 
an'  a  kind  of  a  small  room  without  no  win- 
dow does  fer  Johnnie.  An'  the  bathroom. 
You  see  that's  eight  rooms  fer  a  small 
fambly  of  five.  We  did  n't  hev  but  five 
rooms  over  to  Charlestown,  an'  here 's  wife 
an'  Melia  coaxin'  to  hev  sump'n  or  other 
finished  off  in  the  attic  fer  a  girl  or  folks 
stoppin'  over  night  to  sleep  in.  Now,  ef  I 
hed  my  way,  me  an'  wife  would  hev  that  ere 
dinin'  room  fer  a  bed-chamber  —  I  allus 
was  a  terrible  hand  to  sleep  on  fust  floor — 
an'  then  eat  in  the  kitchen  same  as  we  allus 
done  over  in  Charlestown,  an'  hev  them 


14        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

two  boys  okkerpy  one  room  as  they  'd 
oughter.  But  they  spread  round  so,  I  guess, 
mostly  because  the  house  is  het  with  a  fur- 
nace, an'  all  the  doors  is  open  through  the 
house. 

"  Well,  now,  it  is  kinder  pleasant  havin* 
everybody  hev  a  place  to  go  to.  Same  as 
my  Sammie,  now,  he  's  got  him  a  jig-saw, 
an'  he 's  learnin'  shorthand,  too,  an'  so  he  's 
up  there  consid'ble'  into  his  room,  an'  no- 
body don't  worry  him,  don't  you  see  ?  An* 
Melia,  she 's  settin'  up  there  good  part  the 
time  in  her  bedroom,  a-sewin',  an'  a-writin' 
her  letters,  an'  a-talkin'  to  her  lady  friends 
she  hez  up  there.  An'  take  it  in  the  evenin', 
now,  or  Sundays,  you  see,  I  can  set  in  the 
dinin'  room  an'  hev  my  pipe,  an'  wife  hevin' 
her  little  doze  on  the  sofy,  whilst  my  boys 
an'  the  girls  is  in  the  parlor  a-playin'  the 
pianner  an'  singin',  an'  keep  the  door  shut 
the  noise  don't  bother  me  none.  An'  Lord ! 
ef  they  holler  too  loud,  so  I  can't  git  my 
nap,  well,  I  jest  go  out  in  the  kitchen  an' 


IVYWYND  15 

set.  So  you  see  it 's  handy,  hevin'  sech  a 
terrible  large  house,  after  all,  some  ways. 
Kinder  pretty  house,  too,  on  the  outside  — 
all  jogs  an'  pillars  an'  porches,  an'  lumpy 
on  the  roof.  I  says  to  wife  the  day  we 
moved  out,  says  I,  '  Looks  like  an  old  ship 
goin'  'fore  a  gale  o'  wind  with  one  stunsail 
set,'  says  I.  I  b'lieve  they  call  it  a  dormet 
window  or  sump'n  or  'nother.  I  hain't 
lived  under  but  a  pitch  roof,  so  I  'm  sorter 
slow  to  take  to  notions.  All  the  houses  up 
an'  down  our  street  hez  mostly  got  same 
kind  o'  jibs  as  ourn,  so  I  guess  I  '11  git  used 
to  it  after  a  spell. 

"  Queer  about  them  houses,  too.  I  swear 
if  we  hed  n't  ben  in  our  house  a  month  be- 
fore I  see  the  next  man  down  street  hed 
him  a  kinder  of  a  little  piazza  concern  onto 
one  side  of  his  house,  same  as  warn't  on  my 
house  ez  fur  ez  I  'd  seen.  But,  I  says  to 
myself,  says  I,  ef  he  's  got  one  there  I  Ve 
got  one  too,  —  an'  sure  eno',  come  to  find 
out,  so  I  hed ;  got  a  piece  o'  my  own  house 


16        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

I  hed  n't  seen !  I  tell  you  it  warn't  long 
job  my  goin'  out  an'  roun'  an'  lookin'  at  it 
all  sides.  (There  ain't  no  way  o'  gittin'  to 
it  'thout  you  go  out  the  front  door  an'  roun' 
side  the  house.)  Well,  so  we  got  us  some 
o'  them  squares  o'  carpet  they  sell,  I  call  'em 
carpet  squares,  but  Sa'r  Lizzie  says  I  ain't  to 
say  only  (  squares.'  Well,  we  got  'em,  well 
—  most  a  year  ago.  At  least  wife  an' 
Melia  they  bought  'em  into  the  city.  An' 
when  they  come  home,  hanged  ef  they 
warn't  short  of  the  mop-board  more  'n  two 
feet  all  sides.  Wife  said  she  'd  make  'em 
do,  an'  hed  in  a  man  polished  up  the  floor 
where  it  warn't  covered,  an'  then  he  dusted, 
an'  sent  me  in  a  bill  ud  half  paid  for  a 
new  carpet,  so  I  asked  Sa'r  Lizzie  what 
was  to  do,  and  she  says  to  me  to  pay  it,  he 
done  a  good  job.  Well,  I  tell  yer,  them 
rooms  looks  queer.  I  says  to  wife,  I  says, 
'  Looks  as  ef  we  could  n't  afford  big  enough 
carpet,'  but  she  said  '  No '  and  that 's  all 
she  said.  An'  so,  one  way  or  'nother,  the 


IVYWYND  17 

money  goes  —  new  furniture  an'  things  to 
stick  up  roun'  the  room.  But  wife  does 
like  the  kitchen.  I  'm  real  glad  I  got 
the  house,  ef  it  warn't  only  on  'count  the 
kitchen.  Wife  says  it 's  puffickly  lovely, 
and  I  hain't  heard  her  say  so  much  of  any 
place  else  in  the  house.  Hot  an'  cold  water 
right  over  the  sink ;  pile  up  your  dishes  an' 
turn  the  water  on  —  no  haulin'  an'  luggin' 
a  teakettle  off'n  the  stove.  That  ere 
kitchen  range  burns  more  coal  than  any 
stove  I  ever  see.  Costs  me  a  pile  o'  money 
f er  coal  fer  that  an'  the  furnace. 

"  Then  there  's  my  fares.  Over  home,  I 
mean  over  to  Charlestown,  when  the  old 
boat  wuz  tied  up  nights,  there  I  wuz,  you 
see.  Jump  on  a  ferryboat,  an'  took  me 
right  to  my  own  door,  so  to  speak.  But 
livin'  where  we  do  now,  over  to  Ivywynd, 
there  's  my  horse-car  fare  to  the  deppo,  an' 
my  steam-car  fare,  an'  after  jiggin'  long, 
stop  an'  go  ahead  fer  half  an  hour,  where 
be  I  ?  Why,  I  'm  half  a  mile  from  my  house, 


18        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

an'  got  to  walk  up  a  hill  an'  down  a  holler, 
an'  walk  in  the  road,  too,  'cause  there  ain't 
no  sidewalks  set  out  yet.  Wife  says  they 
will  be  soon,  it 's  a  growin'  sooburb,  says 
she. 

"Well,  I  dunno  how  'twas,  but  I  mis- 
trusted sump'n  ud  hev  to  give  when  wife 
got  thet  pie  knife  o'  her'n,  here  couple  years 
back,  although  the  pie  knife  warn't  wife's 
so  much  as  it  was  Melia's.  I  says  to  wife, 
I  says,  '  Sa'r  Lizzie,'  says  I,  '  what 's  the 
matter  with  doin'  as  we  done  ever  sence 
we  ben  to  housekeepin'  —  hain't  we  lived 
comfortable  an'  lovin'  'thout  no  pie  knife  ?  ' 
says  I.  But  wife  she  looked  so  kinder 
down  an'  feelin'  bad,  I  hed  n't  nothin'  more 
to  say,  only  to  shut  up.  An'  next  thing  I 
knowed  we  muss  git  us  a  house  out  to  Ivy- 
wynd.  An'  as  I  say,  it 's  a  real  nice  com- 
fortable roomy  kind  of  a  house,  on'y  it  hez 
drawbacks,  same  as  ev'ry  house,  I  s'pose. 
There 's  one  thing  in  pertic'lar  I  wisht 
warn't  jest  as  'tis,  an'  that's  the  clusets. 


IVYWYND  19 

I  allus  ben  a  terrible  hand  fer  clusets,  my- 
self —  'board  a  ship  an'  ashore  both  —  an' 
(curus,  ain't  it  ?  jest  my  luck)  there  ain't  a 
single  cluset  in  that  whole  house. 

"  I  hev  to  hang  up  on  a  nail,  so  to  speak, 
as  regards  my  does.  Wife  thinks  them 
squares  is  goin'  to  be  a  darned  sight  easier 
to  keep  the  moths  out  of  than  carpets  is, 
an*  I  dunno  but  what  she  's  right.  Thinks 
there  won't  be  no  need  takin'  of  'em  up  in 
the  summer  time  while  she  's  up  to  mother's 
fer  the  month  o'  July,  same  as  we  done 
with  the  carpet  over  to  Charlestown ;  gret 
piece  o'  work,  ef  it  warn't  but  one,  the  on'y 
one  we  hed.  She  thinks  ef  I  jest  go  rounj 
the  aiges  o'  them  squares  onct  a  week  no 
wool-worms  won't  git  real  lodgment  —  the 
pepper  '11  kill  'em.  Well,  so  I  s'pose  I  got 
ter  git  down  on  my  knees,  come  July,  an' 
pepper  the  aiges  o'  them  squares.  I  s'pose 
Sa'r  Lizzie  knows  what  ought  to  be  done. 
We  hain't  hed  them  squares  over  one  sum- 
mer yet,  an'  I  dunno  but  what  Sa'r  Lizzie  '11 


20        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

think  she  can't  gwup  to  mother's  this  corn- 
in'  July.  I  'm  real  glad  I  got  'em  that 
house  out  to  Ivywynd,  ef  it  don't  fit  me  jest 
the  same  as  did  over  home,  I  mean  over  to 
Charlestown." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   DOG   WATCH 

CAPTAIN  GIBSON  sat  uneasily  silent  while 
Captain  Bunce  told  his  story,  and  when  it 
seemed  to  be  done  he  rose  and  backed  to 
the  door,  smiling  good-bye  with  possibly  a 
shade  of  disappointment  on  his  bright  face. 

"  Gret  little  man,  I  vow,"  said  Captain 
Bunce  in  soliloquy.  "  Buried  his  third  an* 
lookin'  for  his  fourth,  eh,  Mis'  Padelford?" 

"  Oh,  go  'long,  Captain,  you  do  hector  a 
body  so.  He  jest  comes  here  to  meet  up 
with  everybody,  that 's  all  they  is  to  that. 
He  drives  up  from  the  buoy  station  two 
three  times  a  week  for  provisions,  that 's  all, 
an*  comes  here.  I  don't  see  nothin*  queer 
in  that." 

"  Sure.     Who  said  so  !     Now  don't  you 


22        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

git  pepp'ry,  Mis'  Padelford  !  He  's  a  gret 
little  man.  I  tell  ye  he 's  a  credit  to  ye, 
an'  I  hope  to  be  invited." 

Ethan  had  gone  out  shortly  after  Captain 
Gibson,  and  left  the  field  to  Captain  Bunce, 
who  had  news. 

"  Speakin'  of  invitements,  what  think  of 
Ethan's  leavin'  the  light?  Tears  by  the 
way  he  talked  when  he  wuz  in  here  he  did  n't 
know  he  wuz.  But  I  hear  they  've  took  his 
resignation  an'  go  in'  to  fetch  John  over 
from  Sculpin  in  his  place." 

"  I  think  the  gov'ment  's  made  a  mistake," 
said  Mrs.  Padelford,  weightily.  "  John 
wuz  fust-class  where  he  wuz,  an'  where  he 's 
goin'  he  '11  be  in  hot  water  the  whole  time. 
Him  so  frolicsome  an'  so  jolly  an'  so  free 
an'  easy.  He  '11  make  Jordan  mad,  set  or 
stand.  Poor  John !  There 's  trouble  to 
come  for  that  boy.  An'  what  '11  ole  Jim 
do  alone  on  Sculpin  ?  " 

"  Well,  he 's  got  to  go  too.  Reg'lar 
game  o'  noses.  But  he 's  kind  of  a  pet  of 


THE   DOG  WATCH  23 

some  o'  them  Navy  fellers  'long  of  his  losin' 
his  eye  or  somethin'  in  some  fight  o'  ruther 
he  mixed  up  in  with  'em  some  time  o'  ruther, 
an'  they  've  got  him  a  soft  snap  round  head- 
quarters, I  believe.  'Pears  he  warn't  a  real 
livin'  success  light-keepin',  although  he  done 
all  he  could  to  spite  John  an'  make  trouble 
up  t'  the  office.  But  that  ain't  the  worst. 
They  've  got  a  reg'lar  ole  fool  comin'  there 
now.  Why,  from  the  looks  of  him  I  don't 
believe  he  hardly  even  seen  salt  water,  an' 
he  's  scat  to  death  of  a  boat.  Looks  like 
he  '11  land  on  Sculpin  an'  jest  live  till  he 
dies.  I  told  the  inspector  when  he  come  up 
in  the  pilot  house  this  morning,  I  says  to 
him,  '  'T  ain't  none  o'  my  business,  sir,'  says 
I, '  but  I  'd  like  to  know  ef  a  duck  would  n't 
set  better  on  Sculpin  than  a  hen,  sir,'  says 
I,  an'  he  bust  out  laughin'  an'  said  how  the 
ole  man  wuz  a  Union  soldier  an'  hed  a 
splendid  record  and  so  forth,  an'  it  wuz  jest 
his  turn  on  the  list,  that  wuz  all.  ( Don't 
take  long  to  try  'em,'  says  he,  '  an'  they  all 


24        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

know  they've  got  to  go  double  quick  if 
their  light  's  poor/  Now  'pears  to  me  the 
gov'ment  's  head  ain't  exactly  plumb,  so  to 
speak." 

"  I  'm  real  sorry  for  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Padelf  ord.  "  It 's  terrible  lonesome  out  on 
Sculpin,  an'  Jim  wuz  awful  scat  when  it 
blowed  hard.  Who  '11  he  hev  fer  'sist- 
ant?" 

"  Nobody.  They  've  discontinued  the 
fog  signal  an'  fixed  the  light  stiddy,  an' 
they  calc'late  one  man  '11  run  the  whole 
thing." 

"  My  land  alive !  " 

"  Yes,  marm.  That 's  jest  how  the  land 
lays  to-day.  Well,  I  must  be  goin'.  By 
George  !  I  b'lieve  I  smell  cabbage." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  Captain,"  said  Mrs.  Padel- 
f  ord,  with  pride.  "  I  got  a  whole  head  in 
that  pot.  Better  hev  some.  Pleased  to 
hev  you  stay  to  dinner.  Captain  Gibson 
gen'ly  does.  I  some  expected  he  'd  remain 
to-day.  He 's  a  dear  lover  of  cabbage, 


THE  DOG  WATCH  25 

Captain  Gibson  is.  He  could  eat  his  weight 
in  it.  An'  me  too.  An'  I  got  a  handsome 
piece  o'  boiled  beef  on,  I  'd  be  pleased  to 
hev  you  eat  of." 

"  Well,  I  don't  calc'late  you  '11  hev  to  tie 
me  down  to  keep  me,  Mis'  Padelf ord.  I  'm 
so  holler  now  I  dunno  but  I  'd  fall  in  'fore 
dinner  time,  an'  I  vow  I  do  set  a  lot  by  beef 
—  all  kinds  o'  beef  —  lamb,  ram,  sheep,  an' 
mutton  —  ho  !  ho  !  " 

And  presently  dinner  was  ready  for  two. 

"You  set  a  real  stylish  table,"  said  the 
Captain,  drawing  up  promptly.  "  Ever  see 
Mis'  Jordan's  dishes  on  trew  ?  Lord !  I  'd 
say  a  squall  hed  struck  'em.  But  you  hevin' 
ben  right  on  the  island,  I  guess  I  can't  give 
you  no  pointers  on  Mis'  Jordan." 

"  I  hain't  ben  over  now  for  quite  a  spell 
back,  sence  that  time  of  the  plate,"  she  said. 
«  You  heard  about  that  plate  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    TOP    PLATE 

"SHE  wuz  the  most  pertic'lar  woman  I 
ever  see,  an'  that 's  why  I  did  feel  kind  o' 
backward  'bout  goin'  'cross  to  the  islan',  an' 
her  not  lookin'  f er  me,  since  I  hed  n't  went 
fer  some  time.  But  bein'  extry  good  op'- 
tunity  to  go  'cross  with  husban'  to  fix  their 
foghorn,  I  concluded  mebbe  she  'd  see  me 
some  ways  off  an'  slick  up  to  suit  herself. 
She  wuz  a  dredful  able  woman  when  the 
hurry  come.  Time  an'  again  I've  heard 
her  say  she  would  do  more  necessary  an' 
onnecessary  work  round  the  place  after  the 
inspector's  boat  hove  in  sight  than  any  other 
woman  bein'  notified  of  his  comin'.  But 
she  allus  wuz  real  careful  anyway,  'bout 
little  things,  sweepin'  under  mats  an'  behin' 


THE  TOP  PLATE  27 

doors,  onless  somethin'  really  come  ter  hin- 
der, every  day  in  the  week.  An'  long  as 
I  'd  known  her,  I  don't  believe  I  'd  ever 
seen  her  three  times  with  a  button  off  the 
front  of  her  waist,  an'  her  so  fleshy.  I 
ain't  that  way  myself.  I  guess  I  be  terrible 
slack,  but  then  I  hev  lived  in  a  lighthouse, 
an'  I  hev  heard  say  some  inspectors  would  n't 
let  ye  scratch  a  match  on  a  fog  bank  for 
fear  it  would  leave  a  mark  on  the  Gover'- 
ment  Reservation. 

"  But  as  I  wuz  sayin',  Mis'  Jordan  she  'd 
be  pertic'lar  anywheres,  any  time,  an'  I 
guess  it 's  her  real  nice  ways  hez  kep'  'em 
the  job  so  long.  I  do  allus  hold  to  clean 
up  the  supper  dishes  myself,  but  there 's 
them  that  don't,  an'  Mis'  Jordan,  too,  an' 
do  'em  in  the  mornin'.  An'  her  daughter, 
Maria,  she 's  real  smart  round,  an'  extry 
quick  when  the  inspector's  boat  comes  in 
sight.  Mis'  Jordan  is  heavy  on  her  feet,  an' 
don't  hardly  ever  go  in  the  tower  at  all,  I 
b'lieve.  She  does  the  slickin'  up  round  the 


28        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

house  an'  ou' doors  while  Maria  does  the 
light,  if  the  old  gentleman  isn't  to  home, 
after  the  boat  comes  in  sight. 

"  So  I  did  feel  slow  to  take  her  by  sur- 
prise that  day,  knowin'  they  warn't  settin' 
out  to  hev  company,  an'  knowin'  they  like 
to  make  of  folks  when  they  do  hev'  'em. 
Mis'  Jordan  hez  a  real  lovely  home,  ef  it  is 
small,  an'  she  lives  real  simple  right  in  the 
fambly,  them  three.  There  's  the  front  room 
they  open  for  folks,  an'  two  bedrooms ;  so 
they  eat  in  the  kitchen.  I  wuz  caPc'latin' 
to  git  acrost  so  as  to  strike  'em  'tween 
meals  case  o'  their  bein'  short.  But  I  did 
git  there  somewheres  about  four. 

"  Mis'  Jordan  hez  a  real  handsome  pantry 
off  her  kitchen,  only  kind  o'  crowded  when 
Mr.  Jordan  hez  to  wash  hands  there  time 
o'  cookin'.  An'  Mis'  Jordan  is  the  most 
pertic'lar  woman  I  ever  see.  Time  again 
I  've  heard  her  say  to  her  daughter,  '  I  do 
wish  you'd  comb  your  head  further  off'n 
the  spider  when  I  'm  fryin'  fish,'  an'  she 


THE  TOP  PLATE  29 

was  allus  jest  so  careful  'bout  little  things 
like  that.  One  time  there  wuz  a  diver 
down  to  the  island;  he  give  Mr.  Jordan  a 
skull  he  found  at  the  bottom  o'  the  har- 
bor, and  Mr.  Jordan  he  wanted  Mis'  Jordan 
to  use  it  for  a  sugar  bowl,  an'  she 's  so  queer 
she  declared  she  would  n't,  up  an'  down. 

"  So  I  stopped  round  the  beach  awhile, 
givin'  them  a  chance  to  expect  me;  but 
seems  they  did  n't.  Seems  Mis'  Jordan  wuz 
picklin'  that  day,  but  she  wuz  real  glad  to 
see  me.  She  said  she  wished  I  'd  took  some 
other  day  an'  sent  her  word  ;  but  she  asked 
me  in,  an'  we  set  in  the  front  room.  I  told 
her  I  s'posed  I  'd  hev  to  stay  supper,  hus- 
band bein'  so  long  on  the  foghorn,  an'  not 
to  put  herself  out  none,  but  jest  make  me 
one  o'  the  fambly.  She  declared  up  'n'  down 
she  warn't  goin'  to,  an'  her  table  wuz  laid. 
I  could  see  it  from  where  I  set.  But  she 
did  go  out  an'  talk  low  to  Maria.  I  do 
like  to  see  folks  make  o'  their  company ;  I 
do  myself.  So  we  set  down  an'  hed  bake 


30        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

beans,  same  as  usual  on  Sat' day.  She  set 
op'site  an'  Maria  back  t'  the  light,  an'  then 
me ;  an'  I  see  they  'd  kep'  all  their  iron- 
stone on  excep'  mine,  an'  that  wuz  one  o' 
grandmother  Jordan's  weddin'  set,  I  see 
right  off.  So  by  'n'  by  Mis'  Jordan  she 
gimme  some  beans  on  mine,  an'  I  begun. 
Well,  sure 's  I  live,  I  see  my  plate  wuz 
funny.  The  white  wuz  kinder  dull,  an'  the 
blue  dots  of  it  kinder  dull,  an'  no  shine  to 
the  gilt  border.  An'  if  you  '11  believe  it, 
all  under  my  beans  wuz  real  common  dirt ! 
I  swallered  an'  choked  a  minute,  makin'  up 
my  mind  how  to  act  an'  do.  An'  I  see  no- 
body did  n't  see  what  I  see  ;  so  I  begun  an' 
eat  my  beans  slow  from  the  top,  an' by  an' 
by  Mis'  Jordan  she  said, '  Hev  some  more ' ; 
so  I  did,  right  on  top,  an'  I  see  at  once  it 
wuz  top  o'  the  pile  o'  grandmother's  plates 
they  'd  laid  out  in  the  entry  closet.  I  eat  my 
beans  down  to  the  last  layer,  an'  I  eat  my 
brown  bread  out'n  my  hand,  an'  then,  quick 
as  scat,  when  they  wuz  n't  likely  to  be 


THE  TOP  PLATE  31 

lookin',  I  swished  an'  swilled  them  few  beans 
all  over  every  part  an'  licked  up  the  dust 
good,  an'  then  I  made  some  laughin'  talk 
an'  said  how  I  guessed  my  eyes  hed  been 
bigger 'n  my  stummick,  an'  I'd  be  excused 
fer  leavin's  !  It  were  n't  extry  perlite,  but 
land,  they  warn't  no  other  way  ter  do. 
'T  wuz  ter  save  her  feelin's.  Mis'  Jordan 
she'd  V  felt  just  terrible  to  'a'  seen  that 
dirt  if  I  'd  'a'  left  it,  an'  her  washin'  her 
dishes  in  the  mornin'. 

"  0  Lord !  but  Jordan !'  he  wuz  a  bad 
man !  Oh,  the  meanest  that  ever  drawed 
breath,  he  wuz !  An'  Ed,  he  never  jawed 
back !  We  lived  on  the  island  ten  years 
side  o'  that  Jordan,  but  no  saint  could  n't 
'a'  lived  'longside  o'  sich  a  skin,  an'  Ed  he 
throwed  up  lightkeepin'  an'  come  ashore. 
He  'd  orter  die  a  dog's  death,  or  worse,  that 
man !  Only  Ed,  he  did  n't  never  lose  his 
temper,  ef  I  say  it  as  should  n't,  an'  me  so 
pepp'ry  an'  his  widow  as  hed  n't  ought  to 
brag.  Poor  Ed,  an'  him  in  the  cemetery 
an'  ole  Jordan  prancin'  'round ! 


32        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"  You  'd  never  half  believe  how  mean  he 
wuz  ef  you  wuz  told  !  Why,  my  Ed  he  wuz 
gittin'  in  hay  one  day,  an'  lef  the  bar 
down,  an'  one  o'  the  cows  jest  stepped  over 
into  Jordan's  yard,  ramblin'  long  towards 
his  garding.  But  my  land  o'  liberty,  out 
come  Jordan  red  as  my  rooster,  an'  ef  he 
didn't  pick  up  that  bar  an'  lam  the  cow 
oyer  the  back ! 

"  Ed,  he  come  right  up  back,  an'  he  says, 
'  I  '11  take  care  o'  that  cow,  sir ! '  says  he. 

"  0  Lord  !  it  galled  me  so,  Ed  havin'  to 
'  sir '  him  this  an'  t  sir  '  him  that  —  bein' 
his  superior  officer.  An'  Jordan,  he  called 
him  an  awful  bad  word  right  'fore  sonny 
an'  Betsy  an'  me.  An'  Ed,  he  never  said  a 
word.  He  jest  drove  them  cows  right  into 
the  barn,  half-past  one  in  the  daytime,  an' 
me  so  mad  I  'd  like  ter  jumped  up  an'  down 
in  his  tracks ! 

"The  other  keepers  an'  all  their  wives 
wuz  standin'  round,  mad  or  scat,  an'  when 
Ed  came  'long  back  I  says, '  Ed,'  says  I,  '  ef 


THE  TOP  PLATE  33 

you  don't  go  jaw  him  I  shell ! '  says  I.  But 
Ed,  he  kinder  gentled  me  down,  same  as  he 
would  a  cow  in  a  tantrum,  an'  kinder  per- 
suaded me  down  south  side  the  island  rest 
of  the  day,  outer  the  fuss. 

"  '  Mr.  Jordan,  he  '11  be  f eelin'  diffrunt  to- 
morrow,' says  he,  '  an'  I  '11  step  in  an'  have 
a  little  talk  with  him.'  Ed  wuz  allus  jest 
so  peaceful. 

"  An'  Jordan's  wife  is  every  bit  as  bad  as 
he,  only  sly,  an'  kinder  behind  your  back. 
We  hed  a  tumble  revival  over  to  the  meetin'- 
house  that  winter,  an'  I  used  to  go  over 
when  the  water  was  fit.  Forty  jined,  some 
baptized  an'  some  by  letter,  an'  one  night 
my  sister  Deborah  she  went  acrost,  an'  when 
she  come  back  she  could  n't  hardly  wait  to 
git  in.  She  says,  says  she,  '  Eliza,'  says 
she,  '  Mis'  Jordan  's  jined  ! '  says  she. 

"  '  You  don't  sesso  ! '  says  I. 

" '  Yes/  says  she,  '  an'  I  could  n't  hardly 
b'lieve  my  ears  ! '  says  she.  '  Jined  by  let- 
ter ! '  says  she. 


34        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"  '  I  want  ter  know  ! '  says  I.  '  Well/ 
says  I,  '  all  I  kin  say/  says  I,  (  is,  I  lived 
ten  years  next  house  to  that  woman,  an'  on 
an  island  surrounded  by  water/  says  I,  '  an' 
I  never  so  much  as  mistrusted  she  was  a 
Christian/  says  I,  ( an'  worse  'n  that,  a  per- 
fessor  of  religion/  says  I." 


CHAPTEK  V 

ROBINSON    CRUSOE 

A  GALE  was  blowing  from  seaward,  sweep- 
ing up  across  the  bare  pastures  and  setting 
the  great  elms  thrashing  in  the  village  street. 
Mrs.  Padelford  and  Beulah  sat  by  the 
kitchen  fire,  the  table  between  them  with  a 
lamp  that  held  its  one  little  beacon  light 
toward  the  square,  where  all  was  dark. 

Mrs.  Padelford  went  to  the  window  once 
to  look  at  the  lights.  All  the  'longshore 
folks  watch  the  lights. 

"  Lord !  how  it  blows,"  she  said.  The 
tall  star  on  Ship  Island  shone  clear  through 
the  rain,  and  the  little  red  and  white  flash- 
ing light  on  Sculpin  Ledge  to  the  eastward 
blossomed  regularly  and  steadily. 

"  Lord !  it  doos  blow  !  "  she  said,  crossing 


36        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

back  to  her  rocking-chair  by  the  fire,  knit- 
ting and  rocking  and  remembering.  "  I 
hope  there  ain't  no  vessils  close  in  tonight," 
she  said ;  "or  if  they  is  any  wrecks  on 
Ship  Island,  I  do  hope  to  goodness  Mis' 
Jordan 's  got  stuff  to  feed  'em  on.  That 
crew  that  come  in  off'n  a  wreck  sudden 
onct,  you  remember,  Beulah  —  why,  Mis' 
Jordan  didn't  have  nothin'  fillin'  to  give 
'em  but  Boston  crackers  an'  cider  apple 
sauce.  She  never  was  real  forehanded  with 
victuals  —  them  Jordans  live  small  an'  sail 
close  to  the  wind  on  fodder  any  time.  I 
ain't  that  way  myself.  Time  again  when  it 
comes  on  to  blow  sudden,  when  I  was  to  the 
light,  I  've  took  a  lamp  an'  looked  my  but- 
t'ry  over  high  an'  low  to  know  jest  where 
to  lay  my  hand  on  all  the  victuals,  an'  I  've 
cut  ham  ready  to  fry  an'  lots  of  things,  case 
of  a  crew  comin'  in  sudden.  Mis'  Jordan, 
she  never  did  look  at  a  crew  way  I  did.  I 
say  a  man,  an'  what 's  more,  a  whole  lot  o' 
men,  lost  off'n  a  vessil  an'  lost  their  cloes, 


KOBINSON  CRUSOE  37 

likely,  an'  everything,  an'  kinder  low-spirited, 
I  say  men  like  them  wants  fillin'  food  —  hot 
cream  o'  tartar  biscuits  an'  coffee  an'  dough- 
nuts an'  pumkin  pie  mostly.  Not  jest  cold 
vittles  you  happen  to  hev  set  by.  I  've 
cooked  up  vittles  for  lots  o'  crews  in  my 
day.  Lord !  don't  it  blow  !  Hope  there 
aint  no  vessils  close  in  to-night !  My  land 
o'  liberty,  there's  somebody  at  the  door! 
Why,  John  Taylor  !  for  pity's  sake  where  'd 
you  come  frum,  an'  what 's  happened?" 

He  never  stopped  to  knock;  Eobinson 
Crusoe  was  "  old  friends "  here.  He 
bounded  in  noisily,  leather  jacket  and  fish 
boots  dripping  with  rain  and  salt  spray,  his 
cheeks  glowing  and  his  eyes  snapping  with 
fun.  He  seated  himself  serenely  near  the 
door  and  said  sociably, "  Well,  ladies,  how  's 
things  over  your  way  ?  Thank  you,  inarm, 
I  won't  come  no  nearer  the  fire,  so 's  not  to 
muss  your  floor  none,"  hanging  his  sleek, 
wet  fur  cap  on  his  knee  to  drip  and  dry. 

"  That  plaguey  dory  o'  mine,  she  leaks 


38        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

like  thunder.  Reckoned  she'd  drop  from 
under  me  comin'  'cross  from  Sculpin.  Chris- 
topher !  did  n't  I  hev  to  pull  like  the  devil ! 
Big  sea  on.  Dunno  as  I  hauled  her  up  fur 
nuff  on  the  beach,  anyway.  Well,  if  she 
does  git  adrift,  I  guess  I  kin  foot  it  back  to 
Sculpin  —  't  aint  only  mile  or  so,  an'  I  'm 
long  !  I  'd  hev  my  head  out  o'  water  most 
the  way." 

His  shaggy  black  hair  dried  in  a  tangle, 
as  he  talked,  smoothed  down  from  time  to 
time  by  a  hand  sent  aloft  when  not  fidget- 
ing with  his  buttons  or  the  chair  or  his  cap. 

"  I  dunno  how  my  man  Friday  '11  git 
along  while  I  'm  gone.  He 's  kinder  scat  o' 
that  leetle  tower  o'  mine,  an'  don't  he  hate 
wuss'n  poison  hevin'  me  gone  !  By  thunder ! 
But  ef  he  aint  old  ernuf  ter  stay  alone  nights 
awhile,  I  tell  him  he  'd  better  be  gittin'  him 
another  job.  Lord !  he 's  forty-one,  an'  me 
goin'  on  twenty-five !  An'  I  ain't  scat.  Oh, 
he  's  a  big  fool !  It 's  his  watch  till  twelve 
tonight  anyway,  an'  he  can  make  the  old 


EOBINSON  CRUSOE  39 

gal  go  well  enough  if  he 's  a  mind  to,  an* 
don't  go  to  dickerin'  with  the  machinery." 

There  was  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  his  tone ; 
he  rose  and  tiptoed  heavily  to  the  window, 
peering  out  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  far- 
away light. 

"  There  she  goes,"  he  said.  "  She  's  all 
right.  Red,  ten ;  white,  five ;  oh,  I  guess 
the  ole  boy  knows  what  he  's  about,  but 
he  's  sech  an  ole  fool,  reelly  he  don't  know 
haf  the  time  which  side  his  bread 's  buttered." 

Sitting  down  again,  he  stretched  one  leg 
out  while  he  dragged  up  from  the  depths 
of  his  trousers'  pocket  a  letter,  wrapped  in 
newspaper. 

"  I  come  over  to  see  if  I  could  borry  a 
postage  stamp,"  he  said ;  then  suddenly 
laughed  aloud  at  his  thoughts. 

"  Jim 's  so  scat  I  did  n't  say  a  darned 
word  how  I  wuz  comin'  off  after  supper.  I 
jest  set  him  washin'  dishes,  and  that  takes 
all  the  mind  he  's  got,  an'  snuck  out  an'  let 
the  dory  fly  ;  an'  when  she  struck  the  water 


40        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

he  come  a-bustin'  out  the  door  on  deck ; 
thinks  I  'd  fell  overboard,  ye  know ;  and 
I  sings  out,  pullin'  out  from  the  tower,  an' 
the  wind  a-blowin'  —  I  says,  (  Good-bye, 
Jim/  says  I,  '  I  'm  goin'  ter  leave  yer  now ; ' 
an'  my  Lord !  he  stomped  int'  the  entry  an' 
slammed  the  door  to.  Chokin'  mad,  he 
wuz.  My  Lord ;  guess  he  hain't  got  over 
a-cussin'  yet !  Allus  says  when  I  do  some- 
thin'  out  o'  common,  says  he,  *  Deuced 
tomfoolery,'  says  he ; "  and  Crusoe  buffeted 
his  cap  in  a  tumult  of  boyish  glee. 

"  When  I  git  back  he  '11  be  awful  glad, 
but  he  ain't  a-goin'  ter  let  on,  mind;  he 
thinks  I  ain't  got  but  half  an  eye,  anyhow, 
an'  ain't  never  up  to  his  tricks.  But  I  know 
him,  sir  —  marm,  like  a  book !  He  '11  let 
me  haul  the  old  dory  up  single-handed  an' 
think  he  's  takin'  his  spite  out  that  way,  but 
good  Lord,  I  kin  run  all  round  him,  as  fer 
as  tricks  goes.  Why,  it  don't  take  more 
mind  than  I  've  got  in  my  collar-button  to 
git  roun'  ole  Friday.  Don't  mean  no  reel 


EOBINSON  CEUSOE  41 

harm,  nor  I  don't  never  reelly  hurt  him,  but 
he  is  sech  an  ole  fool  I  like  ter  hector  him 
some.  Ef  it  bloes  a  haf  a  puff  o'  wind  he 's 
scat  er  the  tower  tumblin'  down.  That 
night  it  hlowed  so,  —  it 's  two  weeks  come 
next  Monday,  —  I  tell  yer  the  old  gal 
shook,  an'  that's  a  fack.  But,  my  gra- 
cious !  she 's  as  tight  as  the  hair  on  yer 
head,  an'  don't  scare  me  none.  But  when 
we  wuz  to  supper,  an'  the  seas  wuz  a-bangin' 
an'  a-bustin'  on  her,  an'  the  dishes  a-rattlin', 
I  jest  hit  the  table  leg  a  clip  an'  says  solemn 
ter  Jim,  I  says,  '  Jim,  we  're  a  goner  ! '  an* 
he  up  an'  down  a-prayin'.  '  Oh,  what  '11 
we  do  ? '  says  he.  An'  I  says,  '  Jim,'  says 
I,  l  mebbe  she  '11  fall  to  land'ard,'  I  says ! 
an'  by  gosh !  warn't  he  mad  when  he 
ketched  on ! 

"I  ben  washin'  to-day;  did  yer  see  my 
washin*  out  ?  Washed  an*  ironed  same  day. 
See  my  shirt?  Ain't  it  clean?  Can't  I 
wash  good  ?  "  he  asked  brightly,  standing 
up  and  throwing  open  his  jacket,  beating 


42       A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

his  breast  as  if  they,  too,  might  come  for- 
ward if  they  would  and  smite  upon  his 
manly  shirt  front. 

A  fine  deep  red  surged  up  in  his  weather- 
beaten  cheeks,  in  pride  of  performance. 
"  We  gid  done  terrible  quick,  we  do.  Shove 
the  table  up  'longside  the  stove  an*  let  her 
go.  Haint  'got  but  one  flatiron,  so  I  drive 
her  awhile,  an'  then  Jim,  when  she's  hot 
agin.  But  don't  Jim  make  a  kick,  though  ! 
My  Lord !  Says  his'n  good  enough  ef  he 
folds  'em  an'  sets  on  'em  awhile;  but  I  don't 
want  no  man  roun'  me  what  don't  iron  his 
cloes  good,  an'  I  keep  him  at  it,  an'  while 
he  's  jawin'  I  jest  keep  to  loo'ard,  an'  lay 
quiet.  I'm  a  terrible  good  washer  an* 
ironer  myself,  but  it's  mendin'  gits  me. 
I  've  got  a  hole  in  the  heel  o'  this  sock  I  've 
got  on  now,  an'  kills  me  to  wear  a  hole. 
An'  blamed  ef  I  kin  sew  it  up.  An'  buttons 
off,  —  can't  go  that  neither  j  I  've  got  three 
off'n  these  pants  I've  got  on,  but  I  can't 
sew  'em  on.  You  bust  yer  buttons  off 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE  43 

terrible  haulin'  up  that  ole  dory  o'  mine, 
every  time  yer  use  her ;  an'  't  ain't  nuff  fer 
me  to,  but  Jim  he 's  got  to  go  a  bustin'  'em 
off  my  does  'cos  he  ain't  got  nuff  of  his 
own  to  his  back.  I  could  n't  never  learn  to 
sew,  anyhow.  I'll  tell  yer  how  it  is, — 
it 's  this  way :  yer  take  a  piece  o'  cloth,  an' 
yer  clap  a  button  onto  one  side  of  it,  an' 
then  yer  go  to  work  an'  try  to  navigate 
through  from  t'other  side  with  a  needle,  an' 
ef  yer  don't  stave  the  point  off  ev'ry  sin- 
gle time,  I  '11  swaller  it !  Ole  lady  down 
to  Moose  Island,  where  I  come  from,  done 
my  button-sewing  fer  years  back,  an'  comes 
kinder  rough  on  me  doing  it  myself.  Jim, 
he  'd  oughter  know  how  to  sew,  did  n't  he 
now  ?  But  he  don't.  I  says  to  him  some- 

v 

times, '  Jim,'  I  says, *  yer  'd  orter  be  ashamed, 
big  ez  you  be  an'  can't  sew ! '  But  don't 
do  no  good,  only  makes  him  madder  'n  a 
settin'  hen.  Allus  does  when  I  git  foul  er 
any  o'  his  lacks.  But  he  's  a  good  feller, 
Jim  is,  on'y  he  ain't  never  ben  brought  up 


44        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

right.  It  makes  a  lot  er  difference  to  a 
feller  whether  he  's  ben  brought  up." 

Friday's  critic  was  spread  out  at  comfort- 
able length  in  his  chair,  worrying  his  fur 
cap  tirelessly  as  he  talked. 

"  I  don't  mean  that  kind  o'  f  etchin'  up 
the  big-bugs  set  out  to  hev,"  he  explained, 
warming  up  to  a  new  idea.  "  My  gracious ! 
there  's  one  or  two  houses  I  go  into  some- 
times, summer  folks  down  to  Moose  Island, 
in  town  for  winters.  I  ben  to  'em.  I  know 
how  they  done  !  Yer  can't  tell  me !  Why, 
I  gwin  there  awhile  an'  seems  ez  ef  I  should 
gwup  thro'  the  ruf,  makes  me  so  deuced  on- 
comfortable.  So  stan'  up  an'  p'ticler  them 
kind  o'  folks  is,  yer  can't  fetch  a  step  but 
what  yer  come  down  on  some  er  their 
notions.  Good  Lord !  in  some  o'  them 
rixtocratic  houses  yer  hev  ter  split  a  bean 
t'  eat  it.  Ef  I  want  sum'n  t'  eat  I  druther 
eat  off'n  the  floor  than  be  so  awful  slow 
and  mannery.  Now,  I  like  to  come  over 
here,  yer  don't  hev  ter  act  anyhow. 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE  45 

"  Now,  I  '11  tell  yer,  did  yer  ever  notice  " 
(balancing  his  cap  on  one  fist  and  beating 
it  round  and  round  with  the  other),  "  it 's 
jest  this  way  :  sometimes  yer  hev  an  awful 
sight  better  time  when  it  don't  cost  nothin' 
than  ye  do  when  it  does.  That 's  what 's 
the  matter.  Now  I  '11  tell  yer.  I  set  out  to 
go  to  Yarmouth  on  a  Sunday,  to  see  my 
cousin,  Maria  Collins,  an'  so  I  stayed  over 
till  Monday.  Well,  I'll  be  blamed  ef  I 
ever  hed  a  better  time  in  my  life ;  an'  do  ye 
believe,  the  whole  thing  did  n't  cost  fifteen 
cents.  Nor  I  could  n't  tell  yer  to  save  me 
what  I  done,  only  set  roun'  an'  laffed,  an'  I 
dunno  what  I  wuz  laff'n  at.  Maria's  a 
tearer,  an'  she  makes  things  hum  —  an'  so 's 
her  children.  Terrible  nice  children.  I  've 
ben  places  where  I  'd  git  rid  of  fifteen  dol- 
lars an'  wisht  all  the  time  I  hed  n't  went. 
There 's  lots  o'  things  you  pay  for  that 's 
poor  investments,  I  say,  —  'specially  parties 
an'  presents.  Now  I  '11  tell  yer.  I  went  to 
a  party  down  to  Moose  Neck,  an'  me  an' 


46        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

'nother  feller,  we  laid  out  five  dollars  for  the 
two  of  us,  an'  blamed  ef  it  warn't  a  clean 
fizzle.  My  boots  wuz  too  small,  pinched 
awful,  an'  there  wuz  too  many  girls.  Ef 
there 's  one  thing  I  hate,  it 's  too  many  girls 
to  a  party.  An'  I  hain't  went  to  another 
party  since.  An*  jest  see  what  I  laid  out, 
now,  compared  to  Maria's,  an'  did  n't  git 
no  lastin'  satisfaction ! 

"  I  guess  I  '11  be  goin'  now.  Jim,  he  '11 
be  cussin'  an'  jawin'  an*  lookin*  out  the 
door  ev'ry  little  while  t'  see  ef  I  'm  comin', 
but  soon  ez  I  heave  in  sight  under  them 
tower  steps,  he  '11  in  an'  slam  the  door,  an' 
make  believe  not  know  I  'm  roun'.  Oh,  he  's 
a  sly  one,  Jim  is!  Well,  good-night;  I 
guess  I  '11  be  goin'.  Hope  to  see  you  over 
to  my  house,  some  o'  these  nice  nights. 
Well,  I  made  a  visit,  hain't  I,  this  time.  Ef 
you  stan'  up  it 's  a  call,  an'  ef  you  set  down 
it 's  a  visit.  Well,  I  guess  I  '11  be  goin'. 
Good-night ! 

"  Say !  good-night,  Beulah !     Don't  talk 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE  47 

too  much !  "Well,  good  -  night,  every- 
body !  " 

The  kitchen  -was  suddenly  lonely  and 
silent.  Beulah  stood  by  the  window  watch- 
ing, as  though  she  could  see  Crusoe  through 
the  darkness  going  down  that  stormy  road 
to  the  point,  feeling  round  for  his  boat,  and 
running  her  down  alone  into  the  dark,  wild 
water. 

"  He  won't  never  git  acrost  alive ! " 
murmured  Mrs.  Padelf ord.  Then,  presently, 
"  Beulah !  did  you  hear  me !  I  said  he 
would  n't  never  git  acrost  alive." 

Beulah  did  not  speak. 

Mrs.  Padelford  looked  up  at  her  sharply 
over  her  spectacles  and  stopped  rocking. 
Then  she  settled  back  again  and  murmured, 
"  I  feel  like  a  mother  to  him.  Poor  Johnny, 
so  rec'less,  so  daredevil.  He'll  do  them 
kind  o*  things  one  time  too  many  —  one 
time  too  many." 


CHAPTER  VI 

HEART    ISLAND 

THE  parlor  blinds  were  closed,  but  one 
row  of  slats  set  ajar  gave  Mrs.  Padelford  a 
fair  view  of  passers-by.  The  window  itself 
was  set  off  from  the  road  by  a  narrow  strip 
of  grass  one  might  easily  reach  across,  to 
shake  hands  with  some  one  over  the  fence. 

Mrs.  Padelford  was  keeping  a  sharp  eye 
on  the  road  that  afternoon,  for  Bion  Bil- 
lings had  been  seen  up  town,  and  there  was 
Avis  Priscilla  waiting  for  a  chance  to  go 
across  to  the  light. 

"  There  ain't  no  sech  a  thing  as  gittin'  a 
holt  o'  Bion  nowadays,"  said  she.  "  He  's  a 
terrible  hand  to  stick  home,  an*  that  little 
small  light  o'  his.  I  often  says  to  him,  'It 
ain't  no  bigger  than  a  farthin'  dip,  Bion,' 


HEAKT   ISLAND  49 

says  I,  but  he 's  terrible  regular  with  it,  blow 
out  an'  light  up  jest  the  same.  Ain't  never 
a  minute  one  side  the  clock  or  the  other. 
He 's  a  smart  man,  Bion  is,  but  he  's  kinder 
drove,  'long  of  his  wife  's  bein'  laid  by  so 
long  with  her  sickness." 

Avis  was  waiting  to  go  across  to  see  her 
sister,  but  the  little  sea  between  was  to  be 
crossed  only  by  Bion's  dory.  There  was  no 
other  for  a  mile  up  or  down  shore. 

"  If  you  'd  'a'  known  you  wuz  comin'  you 
could  'a'  hed  him  met  yer,"  said  Mrs.  Padel- 
ford.  "  Or  we  could  'a'  went  to  the  point 
an'  hed  him  fetched  you  acrost,  but  he  warn't 
to  home.  I  guess  you  better  make  yourself 
easy,  an'  set  still  till  he  comes  by.  There 
—  there  he  is !  That 's  him !  Hist  the 
winder,  Beulah  !  He's  'long  with  the  store 
man's  team  ! " 

But  Beulah  was  less  nimble  than  the 
store  man's  horse,  and  Bion  was  swept  from 
view. 

"  Well,  he  warn't  goin'  towards  home,  an' 


50        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

he  's  like  as  not  goin'  to  git  the  store  team 
to  carry  some  of  his  stuff  down  to  the 
beacon  for  him,"  said  Mrs.  Padelford. 
"  An'  that 's  why  he  's  ridin'  in  it.  Mebbe 
he  's  got  a  berril  o'  flour,  or  somethin'  big 
to  lug,  —  he  hain't  ben  up  for  I  dunno 
when.  Yes,  I  guess  it's  flour,  most  likely, 
only  Bion  warn't  never  no  gret  of  an  eater 
himself,  an'  Eliza  Olivia  don't  never  eat,  an' 
specially  sence  she  's  ben  down  with  the  — 
well,  I  forgit  what  they  call  it.  I  dunno, 
I'm  sure,  where  they  could  'a'  ben  goin'.  I 
kinder  thought  Bion  would  'a'  stopped  in 
to  tell  me  'bout  Ed.  He  set  a  terrible  lot 
by  Ed,  Bion  did,  an'  he  's  ben  dead  four 
months  now,  and  he  ain't  never  crossed  my 
doorsill.  I  did  think  he'd  'a'  liked  some 
flowers  off'n  the  grave,  but  I'll  hev  'em 
all  give  away  if  he  don't  come  quick. 
Bion 's  queer,  but  he 's  awful  smart  an'  fore- 
handed. I  set  a  lot  by  Bion." 

Beulah,  watching  faithfully  the  turn  in 
the  road  where  the  team  was  to  reappear, 


HEART  ISLAND  51 

overlooked  Bion  on  foot  tearing  down  the 
road,  this  time  unmistakably  bound  for 
home. 

Once  more  the  window  flew  up,  and  the 
blinds  flew  back,  and  Mrs.  Padelford's  voice 
echoed  through  the  square.  "  Hi !  Hello 
there  !  Billings  !  Bion,  I  say  !  Avis  —  Pris- 
cilla's  —  comin'  —  over  !  " 

But  Bion  kept  on  his  way,  not  catching 
the  gist  of  the  call,  but  answering  cheerily 
to  be  down  at  the  beacon,  five  o'clock,  and 
was  gone  again. 

"  Well,  for  pity's  sake,"  said  Mrs.  Padel- 
ford.  "Anybody  'd  think  didn't  nobody 
hev  no  business  to  tend  to,  only  him! 
Well,  you  '11  hev  to  go  to  work  an'  wait  a 
while  longer,  Avis.  'Taint  no  use  chasin* 
him,  an'  he  '11  hev  to  build  a  new  light- 
house an'  set  up  housekeepin'  again  'fore 
five  o'clock.  He  could  n't  live  if  he  did  n't 
kiU  himself."  And  Mrs.  Padelford  told 
Avis  all  about  Ed  till  half  past  four. 

It  might  have  been  an  inland  town  they 


52        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

walked  through,  but  there  was  a  dull  sound 
of  surf  not  far  away,  and  a  smell  of  salt  in 
the  air.  And  between  the  quaint,  crowded 
houses  in  the  square  there  was  a  glimpse  of 
shipping  down  below.  A  dusty  country  road 
stretched  away  before  them,  bordered  with 
scattered  farmhouses  close  to  the  street,  with 
tidy  yards  hemmed  in  by  neat  white  fences 
and  bright  with  flowers.  Meadows  and 
rocky  pastures  lay  beyond  the  town.  And 
then  rockier  pastures,  with  a  rough  path 
leading  away  from  the  road,  bringing  sud- 
den vision  of  the  sea,  a  broad  blue  bay  with 
woodland  opposite,  half  hiding  a  town,  and 
the  small,  white  lighthouse  on  Heart  Island 
standing  clear  against  the  blue. 

Wherever  wild  flowers  could  find  root- 
room,  along  the  rocky  way,  they  crowded  one 
another  for  blooming-space,  —  herb-robert, 
hawthorn,  bayberry  bushes,  blueberry,  but- 
tercups, whiteweed  and  island  upon  island  of 
bluets.  As  far  as  the  path  led,  down  among 
sea-worn  boulders  to  the  edge  of  the  tide, 
bluets  grew. 


HEART  ISLAND  53 

"  Did  you  holler  upstairs  to  hev  Aunt 
Rebecca  keep  her  eye  on  my  beans  in  the 
oven,  Beulah?"  Mrs.  Padelford  puffed, 
clambering  over  the  rocks,  alternately  scan- 
ning the  island  for  glimpses  of  Bion,  and 
fretfully  regarding  the  sinking  sun. 

"  Lord !  Where  do  s'pose  he  's  got  to, 
not  to  be  here  when  we  be !  He  won't  no 
more  'n  git  over  'n'  back  'fore  lightin'-up 
time ! "  Mrs.  Padelford  was  waving  her 
*  handkerchief  with  one  hand  and  with  the 
other  clinging  to  the  iron  bar  of  the  beacon, 
oblivious  of  the  pitiful  lines  on  it  in  memory 
of  some  one  lost  there.  She  knew  all  that 
long  ago,  and  her  business  just  now  was 
with  the  living  and  not  with  the  dead.  "  I 
declare  to  goodness  if  I  don't  see  him 
comin',  and  time  it  wuz,  I  should  say ! " 

Bion,  afar  off,  shaded  his  eyes  and  looked 
across  to  the  beacon,  flashed  into  the  house 
and  out  again,  running  to  the  boathouse,  fol- 
lowed at  a  distance  by  Eliza  Olivia,  toiling 
eagerly  and  slowly  along  the  rocky  island 
way  to  the  shore. 


54        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

Heart  Island  was  a  bit  of  the  shore  rocks, 
set  off  from  them  by  a  narrow,  deep  chasm. 
The  tide  was  full,  and  a  big  sloop  that  came 
darkling  down  from  the  west,  passing  slowly 
through,  quite  shut  out  Heart  Island  with 
its  big  mainsail,  sailing  silently  out  into 
the  bay.  And  behold  Bion  already  halfway 
over. 

"  I  seen  you,  Avis ! "  he  shouted  up, 
"  from  the  back  door  !  Why  did  n't  you 
folks  stop  me  goin'  by,  and  I  'd  fetched  you 
over  noontime  ?  Terrible  glad  to  see  you, 
Avis  !  "  he  shouted,  rowing  fast.  "  How 
be  ye  ?  I  fetched  the  doctor  to  wife,  and 
fetched  him  back  acrost  since  I  see  you, 
Mis'  Padelford.  Godfrey!  I  've  hed  my 
hands  full  last  two  hours !  " 

"You  shut  up,  Bion,"  said  Mrs.  Padel- 
ford, "  an'  jest  say  where  you  're  goin'  ter 
land  with  that  boat.  I  ain't  goin'  to  climb 
from  Bayside  to  Muckentuck  a-chasin'  you, 
an'  don't  you  talk  so  much,"  she  added, 
pleasantly. 


HEART  ISLAND  55 

Bion  gave  Avis  a  horny,  hearty  hand,  and 
helped  her  tenderly  into  the  boat.  Mrs. 
Padelford  and  Beulah  helped  themselves  in 
with  familiar  quickness,  and  Bion  labored 
cheerily  across  again,  with  his  heavy  load, 
talking  fast. 

"Doctor  says  wife  ain't  no  worse,  an'  I 
tell  her,  says  I,  '  Eliza  Olivia,'  says  I,  i  you 
ain't  doin'  the  fair  thing  by  me,'  says  I. 
'  Here  's  the  doctor  comes  over  an'  charges 
me  three  dollars  for  every  single  visit/ 
says  I,  '  an'  I  vow  ef  I  should  n't  think 
you  'd  act  jest  a  leetle  mite  sick  jest  to  save 
the  money,'  says  I.  He  's  ben  a-doctorin' 
her  eight  months  now  an'  he  hain't  killed 
her  yet.  No,  you  need  n't  feel  bad,  you 
know  me,  don't  yer,  ole  girl !  I  'm  the  same 
ole  fool  I  allus  wuz.  I  say  a  pile,  but  I  don't 
mean  nothin'.  I  ain't  only  a  rough  ole 
bugger.  Godfrey !  Eliza  Olivia  an'  me,  we 
ben  married  fifteen  years,  come  day  after 
tomorrer,  an'  I  hain't  went  away  from  her  a 
day,  nor  hex  from  me.  Ef  anythin'  wuz  to 


56        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

happen  to  wife,  I  —  I  dunno  as  I'd  be  on 
top  the  ground  long  m'self .  Godfrey  !  " 

Eliza  Olivia  had  toiled  all  the  long  way 
to  the  little  white  boathouse  at  the  top  of 
the  rocks  opposite,  white  and  worn,  for 
Avis.  She  put  her  arms  around  her  neck 
when  she  came,  and  they  two  walked  back 
to  the  house  alone. 

Bion  cleared  his  throat  and  hauled  the 
boat  up  the  ways;  then  he  followed  along 
after  with  Mrs.  Padelford  and  Beulah. 

"  Eliza  Olivia,  —  poor  wife,  she  don't 
weigh  for  much,"  he  said,  gazing  after  her 
fondly. 

"  Doos  look  peekid,"  said  Mrs.  Padelford. 

"  Haint  ben  ashore  for  nine  months,"  he 
said.  And  "ashore"  was  only  across  the 
chasm. 

"  Yes,  I  took  them  young  head  of  cattle 
to  pastur'  'long  o'  my  own,"  said  Bion,  fill- 
ing the  evening  air  with  his  vigorous  voice. 
"  Then  there 's  my  hens,  an'  my  wife's  father 
livin'  long  of  us  now,  an'  my  lighthouse, 


HEART  ISLAND  57 

an'  cows  to  milk,  an'  doctor  to  fetch  an' 
carry,  an'  used  up  two  whole  barrels  of  lime 
on  my  place  this  spring  a'ready,  an'  not 
done  yet.  An'  I  got  my  house  ter  paint 
inside  an'  outside,  six  rooms,  an'  I  can't  do 
nothin'  to  inside  till  wife's  gone  ashore, 
'count  of  the  turpentine  smell  not  agreein' 
with  her  stomach.  An'  so  I  'm  most  crazy, 
fust  an'  last.  Now  —  Mis'  Padelford,  if 
you  '11  excuse  me,  I  '11  step  round  an'  milk, 
ef  you  '11  make  yerself  ter  home,  an'  I  '11 
put  yer  up  a  can  o'  milk  to  take  home 
when  yer  go,  an'  some  aigs.  But  you  stay 
to  supper.  I  '11  come  in  an'  git  supper 
quick  as  I  milk.  I  would  n't  'a'  ben  so 
tumble  drove  this  afternoon  on'y  fer  doc- 
tor's comin'  over,  an'  goin'  ter  town  to-day, 
an'  my  white washin'.  An'  the  housework 
takes  a  lot  o'  time,  wife  not  bein'  able  ter 
lay  finger  ter  nothin' ;  an'  nussin'  wife,  too, 
that  takes  time ;  an'  Lord,  I  wisht  there 
warn't  no  twelve  hours  night  took  out  of 
the  day.  My  gracious,  ef  I  hed  the  tune 


58        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

the  dark  takes  I  could  git  that  south  fence 
whitewashed  this  week.  Well,  you  make 
yerselves  to  home,  and  I  '11  step  'round  and 
milk." 

In  Bion's  little  world  the  day's  life  was 
never  long  enough  for  all  the  day  brought 
to  do.  Presently  the  light  shone  out  from 
the  tiny  tower.  Bion's  brimming  milk  pails 
stood  at  the  foot,  with  two  sleek  cats  lap- 
ping the  froth  while  he  raced  with  the  clock 
and  the  sunset  to  get  his  light  going.  The 
silver  star  set  securely  in  its  earthly  sky, 
Bion  routed  the  cats,  caught  up  his  pail, 
and  fled  to  get  supper  for  his  guests. 

As  the  night  shut  down,  Mrs.  Padelford 
and  Beulah  were  ferried  across  to  their  own 
world  once  more,  and  Bion  sat  down  on  the 
beach  with  Eliza  and  Avis,  watching  the 
tide  fall,  and  Avis  told  them  the  story. 


CHAPTEK  VII 

AVIS    PBISCILLA 

"  IT  wuz  allus  jest  so  when  I  felt  bad.  I 
bed  ter  go  ou' doors.  An'  so  when  I  heard 
of  it,  I  hed  to  put  my  things  on  an'  go  out. 
I  'd  'a'  died  ef  I  hed  n't.  Did  n't  hev  no- 
wheres  to  go  except  to  go  out,  so  I  did. 
Sister  follered  me  fur's  the  door,  an'  said 
not  to  fergit  it  was  riz  bread  night,  an'  I 
jest  said  back  ter  set  the  dry  hop.  I  'd  'a' 
died  ter  set  still.  An'  I  walked  an'  walked. 
I  do'no  where,  on'y  seems  I  crossed  the 
bridge  two  or  three  times,  an'  I  must  'a' 
ben  out  a  couple  o'  hours.  It  wuz  Japan 
where  he  wuz,  an'  five  hundred  of  'em  on 
the  ships  died  down  tergether,  an'  Ben,  the 
newspaper  said,  an'  't  wuz  the  black  vomit. 
It 's  awful  to  die  of,  an'  sudden.  An'  I 


60        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

walked  -an'  walked,  an'  kep*  a-thinkin'  ef  I 
could  jest  stop  an'  put  my  mind  on  it  an' 
git  right  hold  of  it,  I  'd  feel  better.  An'  I 
would  n't  'a'  minded  feelin'  worse  ef  I  could 
'a'  felt  better  an'  kinder  got  hold  on  things 
round.  But  I  did  n't  darst  to  let  myself 
stop  walkin',  'cause  I  'd  'a'  known  then  what 
wuz  hurtin'  me  inside,  an'  pushin'  on  me  an' 
chokin'  me. 

"  But  bimeby  my  feet  would  n't  f oiler  no 
longer,  an'  I  hed  to  lie  down  side  the  road. 
Then  somethin'  come  to  me  quick,  an'  shook 
my  heart  an'  beat  in  my  head,  an'  I  seen 
what  I  orter  do,  clear.  An'  I  called  '  Wil- 
lyum,  Willyum ! '  quick,  an'  I  jumped  up 
an'  ran  an'  ran  to  find  Willyum :  an' 
bimeby  I  seen  a  light  down  the  road,  an'  I 
heard  a  barn  door  shut  long  ways  off,  and 
dogs,  an'  I  seen  I  wuz  right  near  Willyum's 
house  that  minute.  An'  I  ran  an'  ran,  fear 
I  'd  fall  'fore  I  got  there,  or  lose  my  hold 
on  it ;  for  I  seen  my  duty  now,  an'  I  wuz 
scared,  fear  I  'd  feel  what  hurt  inside  'fore 


AVIS  PKISCILLA  61 

I  got  it  done.  I  never  stopped  till  I  grabbed 
Willyum's  hand  where  he  wuz  bendin'  over 
the  fire,  thinking  when  I  come  in  an*  told 
him  I  would. 

"  He  looked  up  so  beautiful  an'  glad  at 
first  I  covered  up  my  eyes,  an'  then  he  tore 
my  hands  down,  an'  stared  at  me  so  white 
an'  struck  I  shivered  down  before  him ;  but 
I  seen  the  look  come  in  his  eyes  that  minute 
that  never  wuz  gone  again  till  the  day  he 
died.  He  said  did  I  mean  it,  true,  an'  wuz 
I  marryin'  him  now,  he'd  waited  so  long 
wantin'  me,  because  he  wuz  dyin'  ?  An'  I 
said  no,  no,  it  wuz  n't  that.  An'  then  he 
said  sharp  an'  sudden  to  me,  he  says,  '  Avis, 
is  there  another  man  you  love  more  'n 
me  ? '  An'  then  I  bowed  against  his  shoul- 
der an'  cried,  an'  said  '  Oh,  no,  —  no,  there 
wuz  n't  no  other  man.'  But  I  never  knew 
why  he  hed  the  sad  look  in  his  eyes.  'Cause 
he  couldn't  never  hev  heard  nor  dreamed 
of  Ben.  There  warn't  no  way  before  we 
wuz  married,  an'  I  couldn't  never  feel  to 
tell  him.  I  hope  I  done  my  duty. 


62        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"  He  said  I  wuz  the  best  wife  in  all  the 
world.  I  nursed  him  those  six  months  the 
best  I  knew.  He  wuz  far  too  good  fer  me, 
Willyum  wuz.  But  I  would  n't  let  the 
sorrer  git  right  hold  o*  me.  Some  days 
seemed  I  'd  die,  but  Willyum  never  mis- 
trusted. He  could  n't.  He  hed  n't  never 
heard  o'  Ben.  I  hope  I  done  my  duty. 
He  said  there  wuz  n't  another  woman  in  the 
world  could  put  hot  water  on  his  headaches 
like  me.  He  said  they  would  n't  hev  the 
water  hot.  But  there  wuz  a  lot  of  other 
things  he  used  to  praise  me  for,  though 
they  wuz  small  to  do,  an'  him  so  sick,  an'  so 
feelin',  an'  fond  o'  me.  I  could  n't  never 
talk  much,  but  I  know  he  never  knew  I  hed 
a  sorrer  I  wuz  keepin'  hid.  I  hope  I  done 
my  duty. 

"  I  on'y  seen  Ben  that  once  when  I  wuz 
down  to  his  aunt's  in  Barnstable  jest  after 
Willyum  an'  me  wuz  engaged.  He  jest 
stood  up  an'  took  my  hand  when  his  aunt 
spoke  our  names  t'  introduce,  but 't  wuz  all 


AVIS   PEISC1LLA  63 

we  ever  needed,  to  know  we  belonged.  He 
went  out,  an*  we  never  seen  each  other. 
But  we  wuz  man  an'  wife  if  ever  could  be, 
an'  we  both  knew.  He  wrote  me  a  letter 
once  or  twice,  an'  once  I  wrote  him  back. 
An'  two  years  after  I  heard  of  him  dyin'. 
Willyum  wuz  waitin'  fer  me  to  say  e  yes ' 
ter  be  married,  an'  I  hed  given  him  my 
word.  I  could  n't  take  it  back.  An'  Ben 
went  to  sea.  Willyum  used  ter  say  how 
pretty  I  wuz,  an'  I  wuz  glad  to  be  pretty  fer 
him,  an'  times  he  'd  try  to  make  me  smile. 
He  'd  foller  me  round  with  his  eyes,  layin' 
there  at  the  last,  an'  then  he  'd  say,  so  wist- 
ful an'  so  fond  of  me,  he  'd  say,  (  Avis,  if 
ye  'd  ever  smile,  ye  'd  turn  a  king's  head ; ' 
that 's  what  he  said,  him  thinkin'  me  so 
pretty.  He  did  love  me,  Willyum  did,  an' 
never  found  a  breath  of  fault  with  me  ter 
the  last. 

"  I  ben  workin'  in  a  fur  factory  sence  he 
died.  The  ole  pushin'  come  back  down  on 
me  when  I  did  n't  hev  Willyum  to  do  fer. 


64        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

An'  I  hed  to  go  somewheres.  I  come  away 
last  week,  an'  I  'm  goin'  down  to  Barnstable 
openin'  scallops.  There 's  women  wanted 
on  the  wharf,  an'  his  aunt 's  down  there. 
She  says  she  's  heard  he  did  n't  never  die. 
She  thinks  he  '11  come  back.  She  wrote  me 
up  to  the  fur  factory  last  week.  Openin'  's 
pretty  hard  on  the  han's.  Fur  an'  fish  both 
is.  But  I  kind  o'  want  to  be  ou'doors,  an* 
down  to  Barnstable 's  near  the  sea." 


CHAPTER  VIH 

A    CARETAKER 

"You  can't  fetch  a  step  in  this  town 
'thout  ev'rybody  knows  it,"  said  Mrs.  Ben, 
coming  in  out  of  the  storm,  and  standing  all 
snowy  on  the  inside  door-mat,  while  Mrs. 
Crow  disappeared  to  get  the  asked-for  cup 
of  yeast.  "  No,  I  hain't  a-goin'  to  set,  I 
hain't  a-goin'  to  stop,"  she  continued,  direct- 
ing her  voice  toward  the  pantry ;  "  I  dunno 
when  I  've  ben  out  o'  yeast  before,  an'  now 
I  s'pose  the  whole  town  '11  know  I  come 
here  a-borrowin'  of  ye.  Why,  jest  now, 
on'y  last  week,  I  was  over  to  Boston  gittin' 
me  a  pair  new  boots,  —  shoes  they  was,  — 
Samson's  is  so  dreadful  poor  an'  high,  an' 
so,  well,  I  went  up  'long  the  street  'fore 
seven  o'clock,  so 's  nobody  would  n't  see  me, 


66        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

with  a  basket  to  the  depot ;  an'  the  post- 
master, course  he  seen  me,  an'  he  called 
to  me  length  the  street,  '  Goin'  away  ? '  says 
he,  an*  the  butcher  too,  he  did.  I  did  hope 
t'  the  Lord  I  'd  git  by  Ann  Elizer's  'thout 
her  seein'  me,  an'  sure  enough,  she  stood 
back  t'  the  window  when  I  cut  past.  But 
'fore  I  was  out  o'  hearin'  I  seen  her  throw  up 
the  window  an'  holler  after  me.  Folks  is 
so  dreadful  curious.  Now  I  hain't  a  mite 
that  way  myself.  I  dunno  half  nobody's 
business  in  this  town  except  my  own,  an' 
't  ain't  'cause  I  don't  hev  opportunities,  if  I 
say  so  as  had  n't  ought  to.  Bless  my  soul ! 
What's  that?"  she  exclaimed,  opening  the 
door  a  crack,  peering  and  listening  through 
the  fine  sleet  falling;  "The  Methodists' 
straw  ride  !  I  do  declare  !  " 

A  long  pung  creaked  into  view  from  the 
four  corners,  with  slow  horses,  big  bells 
clanging,  and  a  crowded  party  of  villagers. 
Presently  the  high  notes  of  a  cornet  sounded, 
"  Onward !  Christian  soldiers,  marching  as 
to  war ! " 


A   CAEETAKER  67 

"  My  land  alive  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Ben,  closing 
the  crack  to  a  line  as  they  passed  near,  but 
listening  a  minute  still  as  the  sound  swept 
by,  full  and  sweet,  and  died  away  faintly, 
"  on  to  war !  " 

"  It 's  them  Methodists  goin'  over  to 
Barry.  I  should  think  they  'd  be  ashamed. 
It 's  three  weeks  runnin'  they  ben  over  to 
Barry  of  a  Friday  evenin',  an'  their  own 
prayer-meetin'  night,  too,  not  countin'  Tues- 
days, when  they've  went  considerable,  to 
my  truth  and  knowledge,"  said  Mrs.  Ben, 
still  standing  on  the  door-mat,  and  covering 
the  yeast-cup  with  her  hand  to  keep  the 
snow  out  going  home.  "  But  I  can't  stop  a 
minute  now.  I  on'y  say  it 's  a  livin'  shame 
leavin'  Nathaniel  Tewksbury's  meetin'  an' 
gaddin'.  'T  ain't  nothin'  else.  Them  young 
women  out'n  the  choir,  an'  the  men,  an' 
the  cornet  jest  gaddin'  after  that  Elder. 
I  'm  ashamed  of  'em.  Comin'  here  with  his 
pomposity  an'  his  whiskers,  an'  his  cheeks 
gittin*  fatter  ev'ry  week  —  the  way  the 


68        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

women  cooked  him  up  one  mess  o'  food  an* 
'nother  'cause  he  said  he  was  pindlin'  when 
he  come  here.  And  prayin'  ev'ry  night 
into  the  vestry,  an'  callin'  it  revivals  when 
it  warn't  only  bluster  an'  cry  with  mor'n 
half  the  women  folks,  an'  only  seven  men 
saved  from  everlastin'  perdition  in  five 
weeks,  an'  him  livin'  round  on  the  parish 
like  a  porpoise.  He  made  me  mad  to  see 
him.  e  He  's  a  good  man  an'  all  that/  says 
Mr.  Tewksbury  to  me,  when  I  fuss  at  his 
ways  o'  doin',  an'  speakin'  ill  o'  him  behind 
his  back,  which  I  told  Mr.  Tewksbury  plum 
straight  I  'd  as  lief  say  to  his  face,  an'  him 
so  patient  an'  f  orbearin'  with  me  if  I  hain't 
only  his  housekeeper,  an'  no  kith  nor  kin. 
'  He 's  a  good  man,'  says  Mr.  T.,  quiet  an' 
firm,  l  on'y  the  Lord  he  leads  him  in  ways 
what  I  don't  take  after  myself,'  an'  like  o' 
that,  'n'  I  know  fer  truth  an'  knowledge  of 
the  Elder's  tryin'  to  pervert  folks  right  out 
of  our  meetin'-house  into  hisn.  An'  now  I 
guess  I  '11  be  goin'.  On'y  I  do  like  some 


A  CARETAKER  69 

kinds  o'  ministers  better  than  others,  an'  I 
allus  hold  by  Mr.  Tewksbury's  doctrine  an' 
preachin'  an'  house-to-house  visitin',  an' 
that 's  a  fact.  He  's  jest  the  kind  o'  minis- 
ter I  do  like,  if  he  is  so  grave,  an'  gray 
whiskers,  an'  thin.  I  've  heard  folks  time 
an*  agin  complain  an'  say  he  comes  right 
into  yer  house  an'  talks  'bout  what  yer 
doin'  an'  not  a  mite  o'  religion.  I  hate  a 
man  comes  right  in  an'  gits  down  on  his 
knees  prayin'  whether  anybody  wants  to  or 
not.  An'  he  's  an  awful  good  scholar,  too, 
an*  fer  's  I  can  make  out,  the  whole  of  his 
doctrine  is  mostly  not  goin'  to  church  an* 
comin'  home  fightin',  an'  kinder  let  yer 
Sunday  sift  down  slow  an'  last  yer  the  week 
out.  An'  so  he  does.  He 's  a  beautiful 
hand  to  pray  'n  all,  but  he  's  a  great  hand 
to  live.  He  believes  in  livin*.  So  do  I. 
I  Ve  often  told  my  husband  he  must  'a' 
ben  a  thousand-dollar  man  where  he  come 
from,  but  we  don't  give  him  but  five  hun- 
dred an'  a  donation  party.  An'  he 's  terri- 


70        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

ble  close  'bout  where  he  come  from,  too,  an' 
on'y  that  one  little  boy.  I  Ve  often  said  to 
him,  as  feelin'  as  I  could,  (  Was  your  wife's 
health  mostly  pretty  good  'fore  she  died  ? ' 
An'  he 's  thanked  me  an'  said  it  mostly  was, 
an'  gone  away.  He's  awful  good  to  the 
poor.  He  '11  take  right  holt  an'  help  a  poor 
man  cook  a  meal  o'  victuals,  an'  he  sawed 
ole  Jon  son  up  a  load  of  wood  once  when  he 
was  sick  abed,  an'  give  him  his  dinner,  an' 
carried  it  over,  an'  when  he  was  goin'  off 
'thout  prayin',  —  Jonson  's  a  Methodis', 
you  know,  —  Jonson,  he  looked  so  expectin' 
an'  disappointed,  Mr.  Tewksbury,  he  says, 
'  It 's  all  right,  Charlie ;  you  eat  your  dinner 
while  it 's  hot,  an'  I  '11  be  prayin'  'long 
home,'  says  he.  He 's  real  good  ev'ry  which 
way.  But  ev'rybody  don't  see  as  I  do,  an' 
I'm  free  to  say  he  don't  seem  to  be  so 
sought  after  as  he  might  be,  an'  his  num- 
bers ain't  increasin'.  Husband  said  he's 
too  good  for  'em,  but  I  dunno.  It 's  all  a 
mix  to  me  —  them  as  is  better  than  others 


A   CARETAKEK  71 

not  risin'  'cordin'  to  their  quality.  Why,  I 
know  some  folks  don't  like  a  minister  takin' 
the  clo'es  off  the  line  fer  his  wife,  with  a  big 
fam'ly  to  wash  fer,  an'  no  girl  in  the  kitchen, 
an'  I  'm  terrible  careful  not  to  let  Mr. 
Tewksbury  lay  finger  to  my  wash,  to  save 
scandal,  not  that  he's  ever  made  as  if  he 
was  goin'  to,  but  I  've  hed  my  answer  polite 
an'  ready  on  wash-days,  fearin'  he  might. 
Some  folks  is  dreadful  particular  'bout  their 
pastors.  But  I  dunno  yet  but  what  Mr. 
Tewksbury  will  add  to  the  roll  in  time.  I 
dunno  when  we  hain't  hed  a  conversion 
before  in  ages  till  old  Jonson  was  took  in, 
an'  I  Ve  heard  there 's  others  meditatin'. 
I  'm  expectin*  Easter  will  wake  'em  up  some. 
But  it  does  make  me  ache,  his  goin'  down, 
snowy  night  like  this,  clear  to  the  vestry, 
an'  sittin'  lookin'  so  religious  an'  pleasant 
to  them  empty  benches,  an'  on'y  them  ole 
folks  there,  an'  all  the  young  ones  gone 
after  that  cornet.  I  wisht  they  'd  kep'  his 
house  fer  him  like  me,  an'  seen  his  ins  an' 


72        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

outs,  week  through.  But  I  tell  him  it  '11 
come  his  time  soon,  an'  them  as  went  after 
the  cornet  these  days  will  get  their  hearts 
touched  an'  shook,  an'  stay  to  the  vestry 
Fridays.  I  wisht  they  could  jest  see  his 
lovin'  ways  with  Philly.  Jest  how  he  — 
well,  I  guess  I  must  be  goin'.  Good-bye." 
Thus  did  Mrs.  Ben  take  news  of  Mr. 
Tewksbury's  inner  goodness  with  her  wher- 
ever she  went,  and  there  was  always  an  open 
ear  for  the  minister's  "  housekeeper."  To 
Methodist  friends  she  spoke  with  grieved 
surprise  of  their  "  goin's  on  ; "  to  her  church 
associates  she  poured  forth  a  stream  of  pas- 
tor praise,  varied  and  enriched  by  incidents 
of  everyday  goodness  as  the  week  went  by. 
The  leaven  worked.  The  vestry  showed  it. 
But  the  Elder  at  Barry  was  unconsciously 
helping  Mrs.  Ben.  The  Eockhaven  deserters, 
coming  diligently  on  successive  Tuesdays 
and  Fridays  through  the  month  following 
the  Rockhaven  revival,  heard  sermons  from 
Elder  Plum  that  had  an  oblique  effect.  The 


A  CAEETAKER  73 

crude  teaching  rose,  in  inspired  moments, 
to  earnest,  impressive  charge  and  warning. 
This  was  when  the  Elder  talked  of  "  folds  " 
and  our  "  ministerial  privileges  in  our  midst." 
Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Emily  Baker, 
cornet,  refused  to  leave  a  certain  Friday- 
night  prayer-meeting  at  her  own  church, 
and,  the  leader  gone,  the  sleighing  party 
broke  up,  giving  up  Barry,  and  in  place  of 
it  going  to  church  again  or  not,  as  might 
be,  but  bringing  withal  sufficient  signs  of 
"  warnin'  "  to  gladden  Mrs.  Ben's  Friday- 
night  heart.  As  the  minister's  housekeeper, 
she  kept  a  pious  eye  on  backsliders  return- 
ing, possessing  them  with  a  glance  as  they 
entered,  offering  them  at  once  to  the  Lord, 
in  prayer  in  all  simplicity  and  goodness  of 
heart,  as  proof  of  Mr.  Tewksbury's  rising 
ability  and  pastoral  worth. 

A  proof  of  further  "  warnin's  "  was  the 
widened  sympathy  for  what  was  respectf ully 
referred  to  as  the  pastor's  "  back  troubles," 
so  often  dwelt  upon  by  Mrs.  Ben,  and  so 


74        A  LIGHTHOUSE   VILLAGE 

called  in  distinction  from  those  of  later  date, 
—  an  interest  that  showed  itself  in  numerous 
invitations  to  tea,  and  "  bring  Philly,"  from 
the  more  warm-hearted  members  of  the 
pastor's  circle. 

The  startling  news  of  an  accident  to 
Philly,  a  hurt  spine  and  his  life  in  danger, 
called  out  fresh  sympathy,  and  created  a  dis- 
position to  praise  the  stricken  pastor,  —  not 
alone  for  his  goodness  now,  but  for  his  abil- 
ity also,  now  newly  believed  in.  In  those 
weeks  when  he  nursed  Philly,  refusing  all 
offers  to  "  spell "  him,  sitting  all  day  and 
all  night  by  the  child's  bed,  except  for  the 
few  hours  at  church,  his  people  heard  in  his 
sermons  something  that  stirred  them  deeply. 
Mrs.  Ben  said  that  folks  was  "  meditatin'." 

On  the  Sunday  before  Christmas  several 
were  waiting  to  be  received  into  the  church. 
The  pastor  read  these  names :  "  Miss  Emily 
Baker,  Mr.  Moses  Jones,  Mrs.  Baker,  and 
Mehitable  Baker." 

"  The  Lord  's  struck  them  Bakerses  !  " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Ben,  with  solemn  joy. 


A  CARETAKER  75 

On  New  Year's  Eve  a  messenger  brought 
word  to  the  parsonage  that  Miss  Baker's 
class  —  Philly's  class  —  would  like  to  bring 
a  few  little  gifts  on  New  Year's  morning. 
Philly  would  see  the  boys  pass  the  window. 
They  would  be  very  quiet,  and  would  lay 
the  packages  on  the  window-sill  outside. 

That  night  the  doctor's  word  spread 
through  the  village  that  Philly's  New  Year 
would  be  the  end. 


CHAPTER  IX 

PHILLY 

A  DIM,  shaded  night-light  burned  outside 
the  pastor's  study  door,  shining  faintly  in 
across  Philly's  bed. 

"  Father  ?  "  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  my  boy." 

"Oh  — father!" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  'm  so  tired." 

"Yes,  pet,  I  know.  Try  to  lie  still;  try 
hard,  little  man."  A  long  silence. 

"  I  'm  trying,  father." 

"  My  good  boy."     A  longer  silence. 

"  0  father,  father  ! " 

"  I  know,  sonny,  I  know."  The  little 
head  tossed  to  and  fro  on  the  pillow. 

"  Father  dear  !  "  starting. 


PHILLY  77 

"  I  'm  here,  Philly." 

"  Hold  my  hand  hard  —  there,  like  that, 
father." 

"  Yes,  pet." 

"Father?,  "suddenly. 

"  Yes,  my  dear." 

"  You  won't  let  go  my  hand ! " 

"  No."     Silence. 

"  Did  he  say  I  'd  be  well  in  —  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  father  ?  " 

"  He  said  you  'd  be  better,  my  boy." 

"  Very  better  ?  " 

"  More  easy,  I  know." 

"  Will  it  be  twenty-four  hours  to-morrow 
morning  since  to-day,  father  ?  " 

"  Very  nearly,  sonny.  Now  try  to  go  to 
sleep." 

A  moan,  a  sob  —  then  more  sobs  through 
shut  teeth. 

"  He  —  he  said  I  was  a  general,  d-did  n't 
he,  father?" 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  and  a  hero,  too." 

"  I  'd  rather  be  a  general.  0  father,  fa- 
ther !  "  tears  raining  down. 


78        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"  I  know,  I  know,  pet." 

"I'm— so  — tired." 

"  Yes,  pet ;  but  it  will  soon  be  morning." 

"  Father  ?  "  anxiously.  "  Don't  go 
away." 

"  No,  dear." 

"  Oh,  don't  take  your  hand  off  my  fore- 
head, father  darling  !  " 

"  No,  sonny."  A  long  pause,  then  faintly, 
"  Sing,  my  one." 

"  When  he  com-eth, 
When  he  com-eth, 
To  —  make  up  His  jewels." 

The  song  sounded  strange  in  the  winter 
midnight. 

"  Like  the  stars  of  the  morning," 

a  little  voice,  broken  with  tears,  was  sing- 
ing, too. 

"  They  shall  shine  in  their  glory  "  — 

The  little  voice  fell  to  a  moan.     "  0  father, 
dear  !  "     The  singer  was  silent. 


PHILLY  79 

"Don't  sing  it  any  more,  father  dar- 
ling !  " 

A  little  company  of  boys  coming  two  by 
two  down  the  lane  on  New  Year's  morning 
lingered  uncertainly  a  long  way  off,  then 
gathered  in  a  whispering  group  round  the 
pastor's  gate.  The  pastor  was  at  the  win- 
dow, holding  Philly,  and  beckoned  them  in. 

"  Say  '  Happy  New  Year,'  fellers,"  whis- 
pered their  leader,  "  'cause  he  dunno  he  's 
awful  sick,  don't  you  see;  an'  say  it  loud 
right  through  the  winder,  so  he  '11  hear 
good." 

The  boys  crowded  forward  up  the  steps, 
hugging  their  packages  awkwardly,  and 
gazing  awestricken  at  Philly's  white  face 
behind  the  pane.  One  by  one  they  laid 
their  gifts  on  the  sill,  with  quavering  greet- 
ing, in  sorrow  and  great  awe.  Little 
Tommy  Dan,  last  and  least  of  all,  stood  on 
tiptoe  under  the  window,  with  bright  greet- 
ing ready,  and  only  said  :  — 

"  G-good-bye,  Philly." 


CHAPTEE  X 

A   RADICAL 

"  HIM  an'  me  wuz  hevin'  it  over  on  pol'- 
tics  an'  religion,"  said  Captain  Gibson.  "  I 
used  to  set  up  with  him  nights  some,  when 
it  come  his  watch  in  the  tower,  eight  ter 
twelve.  She  'd  be  a  grindin'  roun'  up  top, 
two  ter  the  minute  on  the  quicksilver,  smooth 
as  silk,  the  ole  lens,  —  an*  the  machinery, 
down  where  he  was,  no  particular  objection 
to  talkin',  so  we  hed  it  over  'bout  them  ole 
Bible  dorgmas.  Sam  he  'd  take  a  turn  on 
the  gallery  frum  time  to  time  'count  of 
mebbe  fog  shuttin'  down,  but  we  wuz  pretty 
still  fer  the  most  part,  hevin'  it  over.  He 's 
a  gret  scholar,  Sam  is.  I  'm  proud  of  Sam. 
He  knows  a  lot  more  'n  I  do.  But  I  says 
to  him  right  out  plain,  says  I,  e  Capt'n  An- 


A  KADICAL  81 

derson,  says  I,  '  you  're  a  younger  man 
than  what  I  be,'  —  I  don't  believe  he  ain't 
more  'n  sixty-five  an'  odd,  ef  he  is  a  day,  — 
'  an'  you  '11  come  to  look  at  these  things 
diffrent,'  says  I.  'T  ain't  because  he  don't 
read  a  lot  that  he  come  to  be  so  misguided, 
but  I  guess  he  sorter  keeps  readin'  the  same 
things  right  over  an'  over,  like.  Now  I 
says  to  him  square  to  the  face,  an'  kind,  I 
says,  '  Now  take  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
Capt'n  Anderson,'  says  I ;  ( how  does  that 
set  on  your  stomach?'  says  I.  But  Sam 
don't  hear  to  reasons  easy,  an'  I  kinder 
give  him  up  after  I  'd  ben  at  him  a  spell. 
I  told  him  science  was  agin  him,  but  he 
jest  did  n't  appear  to  care  a  mite.  '  I  got 
my  Bible,'  he  says  over  and  over,  kinder 
wearisome.  Now  I  tell  you  I  respect  a 
pig-headed  cuss  like  Capt'n  Anderson.  I 
dunno  what  he  calls  himself  as  a  congrega- 
tion, so  to  speak.  Prob'ly  Presberterian, 
like  's  not.  But  he 's  twenty  miles  frum  a 
meetin'-house  an'  lowed  he  might  be  kinder 


82        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

short  of  up-to-date  'long  of  not  hevin'  went 
to  church  fer  some  years  back.  But  Sam 
he  '11  allus  be  the  same  bloomin'  radical, 
—  I  believe  that 's  what  they  call  them  kind, 
reg'lar  ole  hard-shell  Bible  folks.  He  calls 
me  a  ninf erdel.  But  I  ain't !  Lord,  no  ! 
no,  I  ain't  thet  fer  down.  Only  'course  I 
don't  believe  nothin'  in  the  Bible.  Lord, 
no !  Godfrey ! 

"  It  comes  kinder  hard  on  me,  —  the  way 
he  thinks  I  'm  goin'  ter  hell.  I  'd  kinder 
like  hevin'  him  feel  we  was  goin'  to  git 
ashore  same  place,  so  to  speak.  Well,  when 
I  was  comin'  off  that  time  I  shook  hands 
with  him  longer  'n  common,  an'  I  says  to 
him,  goin'  away,  I  says,  '  Ole  boy,'  I  says, 
'  you  an'  me  thinks  diff'rent,  but  that 's  all 
right,'  I  says.  '  I  ain't  sure  but  what  there 
is  a  heaven,  but  I  know  there  ain't  no  hell. 
So  you  an'  me  '11  meet  again,  Sam,  ef  I 
leave  Hawkport  fer  the  findin'-out,  Sam, 
'fore  you  do/  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

ILLNESS   AT    IVYWYND 

CAPTAIN  BUNCE'S  bed  stood  in  a  corner 
of  the  darkened  parlor. 

"  I  've  laid  here  nine  weeks  come  next 
Friday  afternoon,"  said  the  captain  feebly, 
folding  his  white  hands  on  the  counterpane. 
"  Look  at  them  hands !  Pretty,  eh  ?  "  he 
cackled.  "  Doctor  —  says  —  he  —  " 

"  Says  he  never  see  sech  a  case  o'  ty- 
phoid," his  wife  struck  in  brightly.  "  Did  n't 
sleep  a  wink  fer  seventeen  days  an'  nights, 
him  nor  me,  an'  me  up  with  him  the  whole 
time,  'cause  he  would  n't  be  nussed  by  no- 
body on'y  me.  Would  n't  take  so  much  as 
a  spoonful  o'  meat  or  drink  'thout  me  givin' 
it  him,  perticularly  drink.  He  wuz  terrible 
queer  'bout  all  his  liquids,  an'  he  ain't  hed 


84        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

mostly  nothin*  else.  I  'm  most  wore  out. 
An'  him.  Poor  'Lias  !  An'  he  never  hed  a 
day's  sickness  'fore  in  his  whole  life,  an'  so 
it  come  hard  on  him,  an'  we  couldn't  git 
no  washin'  done,  an'  I  hed  his  bed  moved 
ri'  down  here  handy  to  the  kitchen." 

The  captain's  wife  was  sitting  carefully 
on  her  apron  turned  front  to  back  on  the 
middle  of  the  fat  blue  velvet  sofa. 

"  An'  so  near  the  harbor-boats  I  declare 
to  goodness  I  dunno  how  he  's  ever  stood  it 
listenin',  he's  kep'  on  so  in  his  delirium. 
When  he  wuz  out  of  his  head,  you  know 
fogs  we  've  hed  in  his  sickness  seems  like 
we  never  did  hev  before,  an'  a-screechin'  an' 
tootin',  an'  kep'  his  boat  in  his  mind  when 
like  as  not  it  would  'a'  stayed  there  fast 
enough  'thout  no  help.  Poor  'Lias  !  He 
hain't  ben  off  n  his  steamer  a  day  sence 
she  wuz  launched ;  an'  so  he  'd  set  up  in  bed 
in  his  delirium  an'  holler,  0  my  Lord !  I  '11 
never  forgit  it,  him  hollerin'.  An'  so  weak 
with  the  typhoid !  He  'd  holler  to  hard  a 


ILLNESS  AT  IVYWYND  85 

port  yer  helium,  an'  then  flop  over  as  weak 
as  a  kitten.  Terrible  queer  ideas  folks  has 
with  the  typhoid.  Captain  Low,  he  died  of 
the  typhoid,  captain  of  the  Sara  Maria  Pip- 
perton,  an'  his  wife  wuz  a-tellin'  me  an' 
cryin'  all  the  time, — recollectin'  of  it  seemed 
to  fret  her  somehow,  kinder  make  her  feel 
bad,  —  an'  she  wuz  a-sayin'  how  the  captain 
wuz  a-f  umblin'  roun'  the  bed  all  them  last 
days  o'  hisn  after  dollar  an'  a  half,  under 
the  piller  an'  bedclo'es  after  thet  dollar  'n' 
a  half  seems  he  'd  lost  mebbe,  or  owed  ter 
somebody  'fore  he  come  down  or  somethin'. 
But  it  wuz  boats  mostly  with  'Lias.  Poor 
'Lias ! " 

"  Thet  woman  o'  mine,  she 's  a  —  won- 
derful—  woman,"  murmured  the  captain. 

"  0  Lord,  no,  'Lias  !  " 

"  Yes,  you  be,  dear,"  he  persisted,  weak 
and  fond.  "  You  done  all  the  work." 

"  Lord  !  no,  'Lias,  I  ain't  done  no  work ; 
I  on'y  cooked  the  vittles." 


CHAPTEK  XII 

WHITE    LAYLOCKS 

"MY  land  o'  liberty,  Eliza  Olivia!  You 
ain't  got  yer  dinner  dishes  done  up  yet ! 
Well,  I  come  'crost  to  the  island  with  the 
cow-man,  lookin'  over  them  young  things  in 
the  far  pastur',  in  his  dory,  an'  so  I  kinder 
come  in  sudden.  Mr.  Tewksbury's  takin' 
tea  over  to  Mis'  Padelford's.  I  '11  set  down 
a  spell.  Where 's  yer  husband  ?  Well, 
you  do  hev  an  elegant  view  over  shore  ways, 
now,  I  declare  to  goodness.  See  my  house, 
can't  yer  !  Well,  I  never !  I  suppose  you 
see  what  a  washin'  I  hed  out  this  mornin'  ! 
You  did  n't  ?  I  want  to  know !  Ain't  that 
too  bad !  Why,  I  hed  my  new  sheets  out, 
an'  all  my  white  spring  sewin',  an'  them 
jean  jumpers  I  made  the  minister  out  of 


WHITE  LAYLOCKS  87 

a  tissue  paper  pattern  I  got  into  Boston. 
Why,  my  land,  Eliza !  I  hed  four  lines  full 
an'  a  grass  layout,  an'  used  up  every  sin- 
gle clo'es-peg  I  got  to  my  name.  I  'm 
real  kinder  sorry  you  hain't  seen  'em.  I 
would  n't  'a'  took  'em  in  'fore  dinner  ef 
I  Jd  'a'  known  you  'd  'a'  liked  to  look  at 
'em,  Eliza  Olivia,  of  course." 

"  You  're  real  nice  to  favor  me,  Lucy, 
but  I  could  n't  never  of  seen  'em  'thout  I  'd 
went  ou'doors.  They  's  laylocks  front  the 
sink-room  window.  I  kep'  a-thinkin'  of  it, 
but  I  did  n't  git  no  chance  to  go  ou'doors. 
I  can't  really  git  down  steps  'thout  husband, 
an'  I  wuz  hopin'  he  'd  git  back  'fore  you 
took  'em  in,  Lucy.  I  s'pose  you  hain't  got 
no  place  else  you  could  hang  your  clo'es, 
Lucy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  gracious,  I  guess  I  hain't.  My 
first  husband  set  them  clo'es-posts  when  we 
wuz  first  married,  an'  I  hain't  felt  to  change 
'em.  I  dunno  ez  I  could  ever  come  to  see 
my  way  to  hang  my  clo'es  anywheres  else." 


88        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"An'  you  allus  hang  'em  so  handsome, 
Lucy ! " 

"  Well,  I  reckon  I  do,  ef  I  do  say  it  ez 
hed  n't  ought  to.  I  'm  terrible  perticular 
'bout  hangin's  out.  Mis'  Bunce  allus  says 
so.  Says  she,  *  Lucy,'  says  she,  f  my  sheets 
is  some  bigger  'n  what  yourn  be,  but  I  ain't 
no  sech  hand  a-hangin'  of  'em  out,'  says  she. 
An'  that 's  jest  about  how  't  is.  Why,  now 
you  would  n't  believe  it  —  I  've  took  a 
kinder  walk  round  wash  days,  ez  ef  I  wuz 
jest  goin'  fer  an  errand,  up  one  street  an' 
down  another,  lookin'  at  lines,  an'  my  land 
alive,  there  warn't  four  to  six  sheets  in 
the  whole  village  what  warn't  a  leetle  mite 
crooked  !  Oh,  I  've  got  an  eye  !  Yes,  in- 
deed !  My  first  husband  allus  'lowed  I  'd 
got  an  eye.  A  straight  eye,  they  call  it. 
Of  course  you  've  got  to  'low  for  help. 
Help  never  does  hang  out  good.  An' 
houses  where  they  keep  help  or  hez  washin' 
done  for  'em,  of  course  I  don't  lay  it  up 
against  a  person  if  their  wash  ain't  hung 


WHITE  LAYLOCKS  89 

good.  Some  hez  notions  'bout  stockin's, 
now.  Some  's  sot  on  toes  an'  some  on  tops. 
I  allus  hold  to  tops.  Mis'  Bunce,  now,  she 
stretches  her  toes  ev'ry  single  time  she  pegs 
by  'em.  Ev'ry  Monday  up  goes  them  toes, 
an'  not  meanin'  no  disrespect  to  Mis'  Bunce, 
I  call  it  real  pig-headedness,  an'  I  said  so  to 
the  minister  this  mornin',  ef  she  is  his  aunt 
on  his  father's  side.  But  Mr.  Tewksbury, 
he's  all  fer  peace  an'  quiet,  an'  it's  real 
hard  to  hev  a  real  up  an'  down  conversation 
with  him  'bout  anybody.  I  hed  my  flannels 
out,  too,  Eliza,  this  mornin'." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  I  do  wisht  I  hed 
an  idee  when  you  wuz  goin'  to,  Lucy !  " 

"  Once  in  the  spring,  an'  once  in  the  fall, 
all  out  to  once,  when  we  take  'em  off  fer 
good.  All  other  times,  of  course  there  ain't 
but  one  set  of  a  tune  out,  when  the  minister 
changes,  an'  I  do,  him  one  week  an'  me  the 
next,  so 's  not  to  make  the  wash  too  heavy." 

"  You  allus  wuz  sech  an  elegant  hand  to 
manage  ! " 


90        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  Lord  !  I  guess  I  be ! 
An'  the  minister  an'  me  changin'  into 
summer  ones  of  a  Decoration  Day  allus,  I 
git  a  good  bleachin'  time  fer  flannels  'fore 
hot  weather  comes.  An'  git  'em  laid  down 
in  camphire,  nice,  in  the  back  attic.  There 's 
a  sight  of  things  to  look  after  in  this  world, 
when  you  think  how  you  might  be  took  off 
any  minute,  an'  the  Lord  would  n't  wait  fer 
yer  then,  no  sir !  to  fix  yer  winter  flannels 
away  frum  the  moths.  I  allus  live  ez  if  I 
wuz  ter  pass  away  the  next  minute.  It's 
the  only  way  in  the  world  to  keep  your  work 
in  hand  decent.  You  hain't  hed  no  new 
white  sewing  yerself ,  hev  yer,  Eliza  ?  Ain't 
that  too  bad!  Mary  Jane  ain't  neither. 
Not  none  that  I  could  sight  frum  so  fer  off. 
They  wuz  some  piller  cases  might  'a'  ben  new 
unbleached,  an'  then  again  they  might  'a'  ben 
yaller  frum  layin'  over.  A  clo'esline  tells  a 
lot.  Reclect  that  pink  calico  skirt  on  yourn 
when  your  niece's  folks  wuz  over  once  frum 
campmeetin',  an'  done  their  washin'  ?  " 


WHITE  LAYLOCKS  91 

"  So  they  did !  You  got  an  elegant 
memory,  Lucy !  Much  ez  five  years  back, 
ain't  it?" 

"  I  can't  say  to  the  day,  of  course,  but  I 
says  to  myself, '  Eliza  Olivia 's  got  company, 
sure 's  the  world !  She  ain't  never  wore 
pink,  nor  stripid,  an'  she  ain't  goin'  to  begin 
now,  at  thirty-nine.'  Or  was  it  thirty-seven  ? 
Seven  an'  nine  allus  did  bother  me,  frum  a 
child.  Well,  so  I  guess  I  '11  be  goin'.  I 
got  to  git  back  'crost  with  that  cow-man, 
an'  so  good-bye,  Eliza ;  I  do  hope  you  '11  git 
over  my  way  soon 's  ever  you  kin  walk  or 
be  kerried." 

Lucy  was  such  a  manager  !  and  so  fore- 
handed !  and  such  a  comfort  to  the  minister ! 
and  so  strong  on  her  feet !  Eliza  Olivia 
watched  her  from  the  door,  and  presently 
she  was  gone,  and  the  afternoon  quiet  lay 
deep  again  over  the  fair  little  island. 

The  lilac  bushes  stood  so  thick  against 
the  sink-room  window  they  really  darkened 
it.  Why  hadn't  she  noticed  it  before? 


92         A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

Some  could  be  spared.  Eliza  Olivia  peered 
through  them. 

"  And  then  I  could  see  her  clo'esline !  " 
she  cried  to  herself,  joyfully.  "  Bion  '11  do 
it  for  me,  he  will !  An'  the  rhubob  would 
grow  a  lot  better  under  'em,  hevin'  sunlight. 
I  do  wisht  Bion  would  come !  "  Eliza 
Olivia  went  to  the  door  and  looked  across 
to  shore,  and  wistfully  down  the  steps.  "  I 
could  look  them  laylocks  over  f rum  outside 
ef  —  ef  I "  —  Eliza  Olivia  reached  down 
for  the  next  step,  and  then  drew  back  her 
foot. 

"  Best  wait  for  Bion,"  she  said.  "  I 
wisht  I  'd  seen  whether  she  pegged  them 
jumpers  by  the  neck  or  the  ban'.  An*  I 
never  ast  her  whether  her  new  ni'gown  wuz 
yoke  or  full.  You  can't  see  clo'es,  on  yer, 
nor  nobody  else,  nor  in  yer  hand,  like  on  a 
clo'esline.  Bion  '11  fix  'em  for  me !  I 
won't  hev  him  touch  the  white  kind,  of 
course.  Mother  set  a  lot  by  'em  when  she 
kep'  the  light.  I  don't  care  nothin'  fer  the 


WHITE  LAYLOCKS  93 

blue,  nothin'  pertic'lar  —  well,  not  a  great 
deal.  Bein'  they  're  out  o'  bloom  now,  dear 
me  suz,  dunno  as  we  kin  tell  white  from  blue, 
anyway.  But  Bion  knows !  He  '11  fix  it ! 
An'  the  outside  branches  does  drip  dreadful 
in  a  rainy  spell." 

"Sure!"  said  Bion.  "Cut  down  the 
gov'ment  tower  fer  ye,  ef  ye  say  so  !  Now 
where  '11 1  begin  ?  " 

Eliza  Olivia  looked  through  the  sink-room 
window  with  shining  eyes,  and  Bion  hacked 
away  a  bough  here  and  hacked  away  a  bough 
there,  letting  the  sunset  light  into  the  heart 
of  the  clump.  Eliza  Olivia  tapped  on  the 
pane. 

"  Careful  of  the  white  laylocks,  Bion  ! 
There  —  that  '11  do !  That  'II  do  !  "  And 
she  rapped  hard  again,  but  too  late  to  save 
one  big  bough  that  came  swishing  down. 
Bion  came  to  the  door,  then,  and  lifted 
Eliza  Olivia  down  the  steps,  and  she  crept 
round  the  corner  of  the  house  clinging  to 


94          A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

his  arm,  and  they  stood  off  a  way,  looking 
at  the  hushes. 

"  Ye  ain't  goin'  to  feel  bad,  be  ye,  dear  ?  " 
she  said. 

"Oh  Lord,  no,"  said  Bion,  clearing  his 
throat.  "  Take  more  'n  that  to  lay  me  out, 
I  take  it.  Got  'em  kinder  the  way  you  like 
'em,  wife  ?  Light  yer  sink  up  good  ?  " 

"I  —  I  'm  kinder  'f raid  it 's  cut  into  mo- 
ther's part,  some,  Bion,  ain't  yew  ?  I  M 
hate  to  touch  mother's  —  them  white  lay- 
locks —  so  hard  tellin',  now  they  ain't 
bloomed  out." 

"  Oh  Lord  no !  Mother's  wuz  on  the 
north  side,  Olivia,  —  the  south  side  I  mean, 
of  course.  Oh  Lord,  no !  Bless  ye  !  Them 
laylocks  is  jest  as  good  as  they  ever  wuz  ! 
Kinder  light  up  yer  sink  good  —  now  — 
er  — think?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    HAT    OF   HIS    PRIDE 

"  AIN'T  you  kinder  'fraid  you  '11  spot  it, 
John  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Jordan,  out  of  the  blue 
smoke  of  breakfast-getting,  resting  the  hand 
that  held  the  fork  on  the  hand  that  held  the 
knife.  "Don't  it  look  a  leetle  mite  like 
rain?  I  dunno  as  I'd  wear  my  stovepipe 
myself,  John,  comin'  on  rain." 

John  stood  in  sight  at  the  bureau  in  the 
kitchen  bedroom,  buttoning  his  collar  in 
pain  and  distress.  He  was  the  first  "  fourth 
assistant "  lightkeeper  in  Mrs.  Jordan's  day 
who  had  a  stovepipe  to  consider,  and  having 
missed  it  altogether  out  of  her  own  domestic 
experience  she  mothered  John's  with  irk- 
some tenderness.  John  said  things  in  the 
bedroom,  and  presently  came  to  breakfast 


96         A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

with  the  treasure  mounted  tight  on  his  head. 
Mr.  Jordan  was  down  cleaning  off  the  fog- 
horn, and  you  could  do  as  you  liked  when 
the  principal  keeper  was  gone. 

"  You  do  jest  as  you  think  best,  John," 
said  Mrs.  Jordan,  laying  before  the  hat 
an  admiring  and  generous  serving  of  fish. 
"  Maria !  comb  yer  head  further  off'n  the 
table !  You  look  real  nice,  John." 

John  whistled  down  to  the  beach,  ran  his 
dory  down  bow  first,  and  loaded  in  a  wheel- 
barrow, piling  up  on  it  his  best  top-coat  and 
undercoat  and  vest,  fish-boots  for  the  possi- 
ble wet  journey  back,  and  last  of  all,  tucked 
in  under  the  tails  of  the  coat,  rode  the  silk 
hat  itself.  A  run  and  a  shove,  and  the  dory 
was  afloat,  with  John  leaping  easily  to  the 
oars  over  the  hurdle  he  had  raised.  A  mile 
across  the  channel  to  Grover's  Cove,  and 
two  miles  with  the  wheelbarrow  to  town,  — 
John  knew  it  all  by  heart  the  season  round, 
the  rugged  road  up  from  shore  and  the  un- 
certain sea  that  lay  between  the  shore  and 


THE  HAT  OF  HIS  PRIDE          97 

his  light.  This  day  he  flew  up  the  rocky 
road  blithely,  his  heart  particularly  hurry- 
ing his  feet,  and  the  hat  of  his  pride  riding 
high  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  Why,  sonny  !  "  cried  mother  Padelf  ord, 
as  he  came  bounding  into  the  kitchen. 
"  You  got  it  on,  ain't  ye  !  How  does  it 
seem  to  do  ?  " 

"  Hotter  'n  smokin'  oakum,  comin'  up," 
he  remarked,  preferring  to  let  the  ornament 
speak  for  itself  as  he  struck  an  attitude, 
then  squaring  his  elbows  to  lift  it  off,  while 
Mrs.  Padelford  hastened  to  rub  off  a  corner 
of  the  table  before  the  hat  came  down. 

"  Why,  sonny,  you  're  gettin'  real  dressy, 
I  do  declare,  an'  while  I  think  of  it,  you'd 
better  get  ye  another  dicky,  John.  One 
ain't  enough  fer  a  young  man  so  dressy  as 
you  be,  an'  I  feel  like  an  own  mother  to 
ye,  John,  an'  't  ain't  allus  I  hev  a  flatiron 
hot  jest  when  ye  want  yer  dicky  done  up, 
sonny.  Wuz  yer  goin'  anywheres  in  per- 
tic'lar  today  in  yer  stovepipe,  Johnny  ?  " 


98         A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"  Damn  the  old  gal,"  said  John,  "  she 
hurts  my  head  anyways  I  set  her.  Last 
time  I  wuz  up  with  her  I  says,  '  Devil  take 
the  old  fishkettle,'  I  says,  ( I  '11  make  her 
fit/  I  says,  e  or  I  '11  smash  her,'-  says  I,  so 
I  kep'  on  a  fetchin'  her  up  town.  Hit  her 
a  kite  with  the  oar  comin'  over,  an'  like  to 
accidental  busted  her,  but  I  guess  she'll 
weather  it.  Ole  gal  '11  get  her  sea  legs  on 
bimebye,  sailin'  'long  o'  me.  I  'm  thinkin' 
some  o'  gittin'  me  a  hoss  come  next  pay 
day.  Git  kinder  het  up  drivin'  the  wheel- 
barrer  so  fer,  an'  fetchin'  the  ole  gal 
'long." 

And  feeling  calmer  he  rose  to  go,  shook 
out  his  plaid  trousers  legs,  smoothed  down 
his  red  spotted  vest,  put  on  his  coat,  and 
was  complete.  Mrs.  Padelford  brought  his 
necktie  bow  round  to  the  front  and  declared 
he  looked  fit  to  get  married. 

"Ain't  yer  toein'  in  more'n  common, 
John  ? "  she  asked  anxiously,  as  she  drew 
off  to  get  him  in  perspective.  "  For  good- 


THE  HAT  OF  HIS  PKIDE          99 

ness'  sake,"  she  added,  "  ef  I  ain't  went  an' 
pressed  them  pants  legs  out  o'  plumb ! 
Dear  me  suz !  Can't  yer  jest  wait  an'  set 
awhile  in  the  spare  chamber,  John,  whilst  I 
go  over  'em  a  little  mite,  John,  an'  git  'em 
kinder  more  up  an'  down,  sonny  ?  Ef  you 
warn't  so  awful  tall  I  dunno  as  't  would 
show  so  terrible.  Well,  ef  ye  be  in  sech 
a  hurry,  John,  jest  keep  in  mind  to  kinder 
step  wide  right  an'  left  an'  I  dunno  as  no- 
body would  mistrust  anythin'  wuz  wrong, 
sonny.  Well,  good-bye.  Step  wide." 

"  That 's  a  bully  topper,  John  's  got," 
said  Ethan  Benedict,  coming  in  stroking  his 
fine  big  front  after  a  brush  with  John  in  the 
entry.  "  Only  somebody  'd  ought  to  tell 
him  where  to  wear  it.  He  's  all  right,  John 
is.  Fine  boy.  Only  he  '11  lose  it  off  astern 
one  o'  these  days.  An'  he  'd  oughter  roll 
his  pants  legs  down." 

"  My  land  alive !  "  cried  Mrs.  Padelford, 
"  an'  him  goin'  to  the  deepo  an'  prob'ly  to 
see  his  girl !  " 


100       A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"  Got  a  girl,  eh !  Well,  he 's  a  right 
smart  boy.  I  allus  liked  his  clean  shirt. 
Now  me,  when  I  kep'  a  light,  I  might  as 
well  'a'  ben  tendin'  hogs.  Soakin'  in  karro- 
sene  oil  the  whole  time,  an*  pitch,  an'  paint, 
an'  grease,  an'  whitewash,  'specially  with 
the  foghorn.  I  don't  know  a  livin'  man  as 
all  round  clean  as  John,  'thout  it's  Jim 
Davis.  Jim 's  the  only  man  I  know  can 
fire  a  locomotive  in  a  gingham  shirt  an'  not 
dirt  the  bosom.  Yes,  John 's  all  right,  any 
end  up.  Where  did  ye  say  he  wuz  bound 
this  time?" 

"  Well,  of  course  it 's  no  business  of  mine, 
but  I  should  say,  now  ye  ask  me  right  out, 
that  it 's  the  tallest  o'  them  two  Van  Beau- 
regard  girls,  or  whatever  their  name  is,  over 
to  the  Point.  Over  to  '  Lodge  Ledge,'  yer 
know.  Old  man  Van's  daughters.  The 
tallest  of  'em.  John  sees  'em  summers. 
John  tells  me  consid'ble  of  his  affairs,  an' 
what  he  don't  tell  me  of  course  I  ask  him. 
He  had  'em  over  to  the  Light  one  day,  to 


THE  HAT  OF  HIS  PRIDE         101 

my  certain  knowledge,  an*  some  o'  their 
lady  friends,  an'  give  'em  dinner." 

"Well,  exercise  is  half  his  vittles,"  said 
Ethan.  "  What 's  the  matter  with  his  hevin' 
summer  people  over?  Ain't  he  allus  hed 
the  whole  kit  an'  kaboodle  of  'em  round, 
sence  he  went  out  t'  the  light  ?  Why,  he  's 
pop'lar,  that 's  all,  that 's  what  John  is. 
Well,  I  hope  the  girl  '11  like  his  topper, 
that 's  all.  It 's  a  bully  ole  headpiece,  my 
conscience ! " 

"  Johnny  's  real  careful  of  that  hat.  Last 
time  he  wore  it  across  he  stopped  here  goin* 
to  the  city  an'  left  it  right  on  my  centre- 
table,  an'  a  newspaper  over  it,  an'  he  'd  'a* 
gone  to  the  city  plain  bareheaded,  I  do  be- 
lieve, on'y  he  hed  one  of  his  ole  caps  along 
in  his  pocket  that  he  wore.  I  guess  he 
warn't  goin'  to  see  the  girl  that  day." 

"Hm,"  Ethan  murmured,  stretching  his 
legs  to  get  the  full  benefit  of  his  pockets  for 
his  hands  while  he  reflected.  Then  he 
pursed  up  his  mouth,  winked  at  Mrs.  Padel- 


102        A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

ford's  cat,  and  presently  turned  a  respectful 
countenance  towards  Mrs.  Padelford's  con- 
tinued story. 

"  He  '11  make  a  good  husband,  on'y  I 
don't  know  as  he  '11  pick  out  the  right  kind 
o'  wife  for  him  to  hev.  Now  that  Alice 
Van-what-is-it,  I  don't  believe  she's  ever 
hed  a  particle  of  bringin'  up  myself.  But 
John,  he  'd  jest  build  a  board  fence  'round 
any  woman  he  set  out  to  like,  he's  that 
lovin'  an'  fond.  Now  that  day  he  was 
goin'  to  hev  that  comp'ny,  he  come  over  to 
me  'bout  it.  He  come  to  see  ef  I  wuzn't 
usin'  all  my  dishes  ef  he  could  borrow  some. 
He  hed  them  rooms,  then,  for  housekeepin' 
over  in  the  storehouse  that  they  took  away 
from  him  an'  made  an  oil  room  out  of  bime- 
bye.  So  I  gin  him  a  real  good  settin'  out 
o'  dishes.  .  .  .  He  did  n't  hev  much  to  fix 
up  with,  nor  no  carpets  down,  nor  no  car- 
pets, I  guess,  an'  not  much  of  a  place  to 
give  a  party  anyway.  I  tried  to  advise  him. 
I  says, '  Them  folks  likes  clams  best,  an'  fish, 


THE  HAT  OF  HIS  PRIDE         103 

John/  I  says,  e  an'  they  admire  to  eat  their 
vittles  ou'  doors,'  I  says ;  but  John  he 
would  n't  be  said.  I  allus  feel  like  an  own 
mother  to  John,  an'  so  I  helped  him  fix  his 
party.  I  says,  '  What  ye  goin'  to  give  'em 
to  eat,  sonny,'  I  says,  an'  he  says,  '  Well, 
Ma/  says  he,  ( I  got  two,  three  molasses 
doughnuts  an'  a  mock  mince  pie  I  cooked 
in  my  watch  last  night,  an'  what  do  ye 
think  o'  dandelion  greens  ?  '  says  he.  Well, 
I  told  him,  says  I,  i  Dandelions  is  all  right/ 
says  I,  l  ef  ye  got  a  nice  piece  salt  pork 
cookin'  'long  with  'em.'  So  he  'lowed  he 
hed,  an'  some  elegant  canned  peaches.  So 
I  guess  he  set  out  as  good  a  meal  o*  vittles 
as  ever  them  Van  people  hed  to  eat.  But 
he  didn't  never  talk  about  it  afterwards. 
Poor  John,  he  hain't  never  hed  no  mother, 
an'  he 's  jest  the  age  o'  the  boy  I  hed 
drownded." 

It   was   nearly   tea-time,   and   still    Mrs. 
Bunce  sat  telling  Mrs.  Padelford  about  the 


104       A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

captain's  "typhoid,"  and  his  sage,  and  his 
hops,  and  other  details  of  his  slow  convales- 
cence, when  Mrs.  Padelford,  looking  up  to 
reply,  caught  sight  of  something  in  the  gar- 
den that  made  her  cry  out  in  dismay,  and 
still  further  delayed  Mrs.  Bunce. 

"  Oh !  oh !  my  goodness'  sake  alive ! " 
she  wailed.  "  How  '11  I  ever  git  it  away 
f rum  him !  Whatever  made  me  hev  it  in 
the  wide  world  where  he  'd  find  it !  Johnny 
left  it  here  only  ha'  past  four,  when  he  come 
in  frum  the  city  with  Beulah,  while  he  wuz 
cartin'  his  stuff  down,  an'  now  he  '11  like  as 
not  come  in  any  minute  after  it,  an'  there 's 
Father  got  it!  Oh,  dear  me, —  oh,  poor 
old  Father!" 

A  white-haired  old  man  in  minister's 
clothes  passed  the  window,  smiling  and  talk- 
ing to  himself  as  he  pottered  about  the  gar- 
den, now  and  again  lifting  off  the  silk  hat 
to  rub  it  tenderly  with  his  coat  sleeve. 

"  Poor  Father !  "  wailed  Mrs.  Padelford. 
"  I  should  n't  wonder  ef  he  thinks  it 's  most 


THE  HAT  OF  HIS  PRIDE         105 

meetin'  time.  He  's  allus  ben  this  way 
sence  half-brother  died,  an'  I  took  him.  I 
never  did  take  after  stepfather,  myself,  nor 
his  folks.  He's  got  such  a  lot  o'  learnin* 
when  his  mind 's  in  order,  or  wuz,  an'  ele- 
gant manners.  An'  now  he 's  got  that  hat ! 
Oh,  dear  me !  I  dunno  how  I  '11  ever  git 
it  away  frum  him.  He  hain't  hed  one  of 
his  own  sence  half-brother  died.  He  used 
to  keep  him  in  hats.  An'  he  allus  wears 
his  best  clo'es,  Sabbath  day  an'  week  day, 
Father  does ! " 

"Couldn't  ye  kinder  coax  it  off'n  him 
with  somethin'  else  ?  "  suggested  Mrs.  Bunce 
with  eager  kindness.  "  Mebbe  he  'd  like  to 
hold  the  cat  awhile.  Don't  he  like  cats  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  likes  cats,"  said  Mrs.  Padel- 
ford.  "  But  't  ain't  that.  He  'd  give  me 
the  hat  quick  nuff  ef  I  set  out  to  git  it  off'n 
him,  but  he  'd  take  it  so  hard.  Kills  me  to 
see  stepfather  feel  bad." 

Just  then  the  old  man  disappeared  from 
the  garden,  and  presently  came  into  the 


106       A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

room  with  slow  step  and  bowed  head.  He 
laid  his  hat  on  the  table  and  folded  his 
hands  before  him  as  he  stood  silent  a  mo- 
ment, then  lifted  them  as  if  in  benediction. 

"  He 's  goin'  to  ask  a  blessin' ! "  Mrs. 
Padelford  whispered  nervously  to  Mrs. 
Bunce,  and  then  broke  down  and  cried  into 
her  lifted  apron  corner  as  the  sweet  words 
of  the  benediction  rose  and  fell. 

"  Hello,  Ma  !  What 's  up  now  ?  "  shouted 
John,  bolting  in  breezily,  and  halting  sud- 
denly as  he  saw  the  old  man  advancing  with 
hand  held  out  in  churchly  greeting,  and 
Mrs.  Bunce  making  signs  to  him  behind  the 
old  man's  back. 

"  Great  stuff,  dad,"  he  cried  heartily,  as 
he  saw  his  precious  hat  on  the  minister's 
head,  and  understood.  "  Fits  yer  like  yer 
skin,  old  boy  !  Don't  yer  never  let  nobody 
git  it  away  from  ye,"  he  said,  clapping  the 
old  man  on  the  shoulder.  "Wonder  I 
never  see  it  before,  dad !  I  vow  I  b'lieve 
yer  mistrusted  I  'd  git  it  away  frum  ye, 


THE  HAT  OF  HIS  PRIDE         107 

myself,  dad !  Well,  good-day,  folks,  here  I 
be  an'  here  I  ain't !  So  long !  " 

And  John  was  gone.  And  in  the  calm  at 
dusk  there  came  singing  ashore  from  the 
boat  flying  home,  — 

"  She 's  —  the  —  on  —  li  — est  —  one  —  I  —  love." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ONE  SIDE  OF   A  LOVE  STORY 

"  YES,  I  'm  thinkin'  o'  gittin'  merried," 
said  Ethan.  "Ben  gittin'  roun'  to  it  fer 
year  'n'  half  now.  But  by  gosh !  I  would  n't 
do  it,  now,  not  on  no  account,  ef  it  warn't 
standin'  in  my  own  light  not  to.  There 's 
that  ole  boardin'  house  a-settin'  on  that 
blazin'  beach  a-starin'  at  me ;  could  git 
the  charge  o'  that  to-morrow  ef  I  wuz  a 
merried  man,  which  I  ain't,  nor  don't  wisht 
I  wuz.  Well,  I  'm  a  darned  fool,  I  vow 
I  be,  lettin'  that  boardin'  house  slip  through 
my  fingers.  But  by  gum,  I  do  hate  the 
women  so  !  Allus  did,  —  I  dunno  why, 
an'  that's  jest  the  mischief  of  it.  Hain't 
gut  nothin'  agin  'em  as  I  know  on,  —  allus 
treated  me  splendid.  But  women !  By 


ONE  SIDE  OF  A  LOVE  STOEY    109 

gosh,  I  hain't  got  no  manner  o'  use  for  'em ! 
Dunno  why.  My  mother,  now,  she 's  a 
good  ole  woman,  an'  my  sisters,  good  as 
can  be,  fer  women.  But  my  land !  keep 
the  whole  pack  of  'em  out'n  my  sight  an' 
I  '11  thank  ye !  An'  now  comes  long  I  got 
ter  marry  fer  chance  ter  make  a  dollar ! 
Got  ter  be  infernally  tied  up  ter  a  woman. 
Makes  me  sweat  thinkin'  of  it,  an'  like  as 
not  I'll  hev  ter  git  religion,  too.  But 
't  ain't  no  use  a-cussin',  I  got  ter  marry  an* 
swaller  my  feelin's,  or  I  don't  hev  that 
boardin'  house  next  season.  An*  what 's 
more,  I  be  mortal  tired  a-cookin'  my  vit- 
tles.  Ben  keepin'  house  fer  year'n'  half 
now,  an'  'fore  that  I  was  a-cookin'  on  the 
ole  Mary  Ella  to  the  West  Indies;  an' 
there 's  dish-washin'.  I  tell  yer  what, 
Capt'n,  I  'd  ruther  starve  than  cook  —  but 
I  'd  ruther  cook  than  wash  dishes.  That 's 
what  women  is  fer  —  to  slop  roun'.  I  got 
ter  marry  ter  git  my  dishes  washed.  Oh 
my  Lord !  an'  like  as  not  she  '11  make  my 


110       A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

clo'es  !  I  know  a  woman  down  to  Milling- 
ton  allus  makes  her  ole  man's  clo'es.  Don't 
fit  him  no  more  'n  a  shirt  on  a  handspike, 
but  good  Lord  !  he  can't  help  himself ! 

"  Hev  I  picked  her  out  yet  ?  Well,  I 
dunno  but  what  I  hev.  Got  one  I  guessed 
would  answer  'bout  four  years  ago.  She  's 
ready  any  time  I  be,  takes  her  observations 
from  me,  I  'd  hev  you  understand.  But 
Lord !  she  dunno  the  fust  thing  how  to 
cook,  an'  like  as  not  I  '11  hev  to  learn  her 
everythin'  f rum  the  word  go.  An*  a  woman 
is  a  reg'lar  mule,  —  terrible  contrary.  Hain't 
got  their  match  on  top  the  ground  fer  cus- 
sedness ! 

"  Keeps  her  eye  peeled,  likely,  ter  see  me 
a-comin'  —  but  I  can't  spend  my  time  racin' 
after  her  ter  keep  a-tellin'  of  her  I  'm  goin' 
ter  marry  her  when  I  git  ready  !  My  Lord ! 
I  'd  jest  as  lief  go  —  hain't  got  nothin'  agin 
the  goin',  as  I  know  on,  barrin'  the  fare ! 

"No,  we  ain't  a-goin'  to  quarrel,  don't 
you  take  no  fear,  —  I  shan't  speak  ter  her 


ONE  SIDE  OF  A  LOVE  STORY     ill 

more  'n  onct  a  month,  when  we  do  git  ter 
housekeepin'.  She  kin  fight  all  she  wants 
to,  so  's  she  don't  bother  me  none  !  Reckon 
she'll  tire  o'  doin'  all  the  jawin',  after  a 
while. 

"  No,  she  ain't  no  gret  of  a  talker,  Cap'n, 
—  allus  awful  quiet  and  awful  lovin'  —  oh 
my  Lord  !  all  women  be ;  that 's  why  I 
hate  'em,  mor'n  half,  I  reckon.  Wisht  I 
hed  n't  never  set  eyes  on  her  ! 

"  Awful  stiddy  worker.  Lord !  hate  them 
stiddy  kind  !  Make  me  crazy !  Well,  I  'm 
thinkin'  some  o'  gittin'  down  her  way  next 
Friday.  Cap'n  Buck,  he  's  give  me  a  chance 
on  that  new  schooner  o'  hisn, —  dunno  but 
what  I  '11  go  down.  Dunno  as  it  '11  pay  to, 
I  don't  care  a  cuss  about  seem'  her,  but  ef  I 
do  go  an'  marry  her,  an'  —  darn  the  whole 
consarn  !  I  wisht  there  warn't  no  women ! 

"  I  dunno,  Cap'n,  but  what  I  will  take 
up  with  your  offer,  —  I  'd  kinder  hate  ter 
dis'pint  yer  when  yer  so  sot  on  my  goin'." 


CHAPTEK  XV 

TOLD   BY   TWO 

"THANKFUL  HOPKINS  hez  bed  a  letter 
from  Phoebe." 

"  You  don't  tell  me !  Must  be  more  'n  a 
year  sence  sbe  's  wrote  last.  Tbankful  wuz 
terrible  mad  when  she  took  off  the  way  she 
did,  and  I  don't  feel  to  blame  her,  to  go  over 
to  Rye  to  try  to  begin  an'  do  fer  herself 
jest  as  ef  they  wuz  poor  folks  or  Thankful 
warn't  wantin'  her  to  home,  an'  with  them 
lame  hands  her  sickness  lef '  her,  an'  all,  an' 
Thankful  all  alone,  too.  Phoebe  allus  wuz 
terrible  uppish  an'  high-handed,  an'  it  would 
V  ben  jest  like  her  to  of  made  out  Thankful 
wanted  her  to  go,  which  everybody  knows 
she  did  n't.  An'  with  them  lame  hands  of 
hers,  'course  she  could  n't  expect  to  git  a 


TOLD   BY  TWO  113 

place.  I  suppose  she 's  wrote  to  come 
home.  Thankful,  she  wuz  jest  right  to  hold 
it  was  bemeanin'  both  of  'em,  Phoebe  goin' 
housekeepin'  to  a  boardin'  house.  But  I 
told  her  it  did  n't  require  no  hands  an'  no 
head  to  buy  victuals  an'  spy  round,  an' 
that 's  about  all  Phoebe  would  hev  to  'xpect 
to  do.  (  Lookin'  ain't  cookin','  I  says  to 
Thankful,  '  nor  't  ain't  lowerin'  yourself  nei- 
ther.' But  Thankful  she  kep'  on  jest  as 
mad  as  ever,  an'  so  I  've  heerd  say  she  told 
Phoebe  she  need  n't  put  herself  out  sendin' 
no  letters  back,  fer  she  should  n't  read  'em. 
Now  war  n't  that  like  her  ?  Well,  I  s'pose 
Phoebe  got  done  tryin'  to  git  merried,  an' 
so  she 's  comin'  home.  Like  as  not  she  '11 
take  in  pants  to  finish,  or  dressmakin'. 
What  did  you  say  she  said  in  the  letter? 
I  allus  thought  that  Hatchkins  feller  treated 
her  mean  to  beau  her  round  like  he  did  an' 
droppin'  her." 

"  Well,  he  wuz  over  to  Rye,  too,  as  I  un- 
derstand." 


114      A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"  Good  land  !     You  don't  say  !  " 

"  An'  I  should  jedge  from  what  the  letter 
said  he  'd  ben  there  straight  along." 

"  I  want  to  know  !  Well,  I  should  think 
Phoebe  would  hev  took  shame  to  herself 
hangin'  round  Rye  jest  'cause  her  beau  wuz 
there." 

"  Well,  she  did  n't  exactly  hang  round, 
so  to  speak,  I  believe.  I  understand  he  got 
her  the  job  in  the  fust  place." 

"  My  gracious  !  Well,  she  allus  wuz  ter- 
rible underhand.  Why,  I  talked  to  her  jest 
before  she  went  away  about  that  same 
Hatchkins,  an'  I  give  him  a  right  good  goin' 
over,  an'  she's  never  said  a  word,  the  sly 
thing.  You  'd  'a'  thought  she  'd  'a'  said  all 
about  it  right  then.  Well,  I  s'pose  he  got 
tired  of  her  an'  so  she 's  comin'  home." 

"I  believe  she  wuz  his  —  I  forgit  the 
name;  something  of  an  amanusis,  I  be- 
lieve, in  the  office,  whatever  that  is  ;  kinder 
wrote  his  letters,  I  expect,  on  a  typewriter, 
likely." 


TOLD  BY  TWO  115 

"  There  !  Did  n't  I  tell  her  he  wuz  lazy ! 
An'  did  you  say  she  give  up  keepin'  the 
boardin'  house  all  the  while  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  as  I  understand  it,  she  did  n't 
never  keep  the  boardin'  house.  She  begun 
in  the  office  an'  wuz  there  a  year  jest  as 
cosey  as  ever  you  see  an'  livin'  with  his 
aunt  an'  gettin'  twenty  dollars  a  week  for  it. 
Thankful  she  jest  could  n't  speak  when  she 
read  it  in  the  letter,  an'  there  wuz  all  them 
letters  of  Phoabe's  she  hed  with  ten  dollars 
a  week  in  'em  all  pitched  into  the  kitchen 
stove  an'  Phoabe  f  eelin'  bad  'cause  she  did  n't 
know  it,  an'  Thankful  wouldn't  write  her 
back.  An'  she  would  n't  never  hev  opened 
this  one,  only  they  wuz  an  out  West  post- 
mark on  it  an'  a  new  kind  of  writin'  on  the 
outside." 

"  Well,  I  do  declare,  an'  so  it 's  a  year 
since  Phoebe  wrote  her,  you  said.  What 
did  you  say  Thankful  said  she  said  ?  " 

"  She  said  they  'd  ben  out  West  a  year, 
ever  sence  they  wuz  fust  married." 


116       A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

"Married!  Who!  What!  What  did 
you  say  ?  " 

"  She  says  Hatchkins  hez  got  him  a  mill 
of  his  own  out  there.  His  father's  died  an' 
left  it  to  him.  An'  so  I  should  jedge  it 
wuz  Mr.  Hatchkins  she  married.  Although 
she  did  n't  really  sesso,  in  so  many  words." 

"My  land  alive!" 

"  An'  Phcebe  hez  got  a  baby." 

"  Good  Lord  !  I  'd  never  hev  believed 
it !  Ef  she  hed  n't  wrote  it  with  her  own 
pen  in  hand." 

"An'  she's  goin'  to  call  it  Thankful 
Hopkins  Hatchkins,  after  her,  the  fifteenth 
of  next  month,  an'  wants  her  to  come  on. 
St.  Paul,  I  believe  the  place  is,  in  Minneapo- 
lis. It 's  a  girl." 

"Well,  I  do  declare  to  goodness.  An' 
wuz  it  on  a  typewriter  ?  " 

"  No.  Mr.  Hatchkins  he  wrote  it  him- 
self, I  believe.  Phcebe  got  him  to.  An' 
Thankful  never  mistrusted.  An'  she  's 
goin'." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A   GLADSTONE   BAG 

"  SHE  wuz  allus  a  kind  of  light-minded, 
but  real  nice  an'  seemly/'  Mrs.  Padelford 
said,  "  an'  that 's  why  she  wuz  ast  off  a  good 
deal  summers.  Down  to  her  aunt's,  mostly, 
up  to  Rye,  that  married  folks  by  the  name 
of  Jones.  An'  they  set  a  lot  by  Melia 
Bunce,  same  as  Captin*  does,  himself.  An' 
so  he  stopped  in  one  mornin'  an'  said  would 
I  jest  go  down  to  meet  the  evenin'  boat  an' 
come  'long  the  Neck  with  Melia,  her  comin' 
home  that  time  from  Rye  after  dark.  So  I 
said  I  'd  be  real  glad  to,  so  I  did.  I  wuz 
down  to  the  wharf  so 's  to  meet  her  on  the 
gang  plank,  an'  she  come  a-tiltin'  down  with 
a  summer  hat  an'  a  white  dress  all  han'some 
rick-rack,  an'  a-tumbled  an  ole  draw-string 


brown  flannel  baig  into  my  arms.  I  wuz 
terrible  glad  to  see  Melia,  an'  I  'd  laid  out 
to  carry  her  baggage  anyway,  so  I  ast  her 
if  they  wuz  anythin'  else  but  the  baig,  an' 
she  said  no,  only  this,  an'  that  she  wuz  goin* 
to  carry  herself.  The  baig  wuz  stuffed  as 
tight  as  a  bullet,  an'  knobby,  an'  jest  almost 
bustin'  out  the  top.  An'  what  she  wuz 
carryin*  wuz  awful  light-lookin',  long  an' 
wide,  kinder  like  a  bird-cage,  an'  all  wrapped 
up  with  newspaper  an'  crooked  string  every 
which  way  round  it. 

"  I  says, '  Hain't  you  got  no  valise,  child  ? ' 
says  I. 

"  An'  says  she,  '  Me  a  valise  !  Land  sakes 
alive,  —  Mis'  Padelford,'  says  she.  '  What'd 
I  do  with  a  valise  ?  I  did  n't  on'y  stay  but 
three  weeks ! ' 

" '  Well,'  says  I,  '  I  did  n't  know  but  you 
might  'a'  wore  clo'es  while  you  wuz  gone,' 
says  I.  She  warn't  but  fifteen,  but  real 
kinder  dressy  on  account  of  her  mother 
settin'  a  lot  by  her. 


A  GLADSTONE  BAG  119 

" (  An'  anyway/  says  I,  '  ef  you  did  n't 
wear  no  clo'es,  I  did  n't  know  but  mebbe 
you  'd  V  wore  undergarments/  says  I. 

"  '  Why,  my  gracious/  says  she, '  I  dunno 
what  you  're  talkin'  'bout,  Mis'  Padelf  ord  ; 
my  clo'es  is  in  thet  baig  I  give  ye  !  I  say 
I  warn't  on'y  gone  but  three  weeks !  I 
did  n't  take  but  two  hull  changes/  says  she, 
1  an'  a  pair  of  ole  boots.  You  stave  up  yer 
good  ones  in  the  bushes/  says  she.  *I 
fixed  it  this  way/  says  she.  'I  wore  one 
hull  set  o'  clo'es  down  there,  that 's  one/ 
says  she.  '  Put  'em  on  the  very  las'  minute 
before  I  started/  says  she.  '  So  them  's  the 
ones  I  wore  the  hull  fust  week/  says  she. 
t  Well/  says  she,  '  when  I  took  them  fust 
ones  off,  why  of  course  I  put  on  the  nex' 
set/  says  she, '  an'  then  there  wuz  the  last 
set/  says  she,  '  ready  to  come  home  in/ 

"  '  Well/  says  I,  1 1  think  you  managed 
splendid,  but  I  dunno  how  you  gut  'em  in 
this  baig/  says  I.  An'  she  kep'  a-laughin' 
an'  could  n't  hardly  walk,  an'  then  she  said 


120      A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

how  she  an'  her  cousin  hed  rammed  'em  in 
an'  bust  the  string  an'  put  in  another  an' 
braced  up  agin  the  wall  an'  hauled  on  it,  an' 
how  clo'es  takes  up  more  room  when  they  've 
ben  wore  awhile  an'  so  forth,  an'  how  them 
two  sot  on  the  baig  an'  jumped  on  it,  an'  so 
forth.  Then  she  says,  says  she,  quietin' 
down  some,  '  I  gut  my  silk  dress  in  this  car- 
bore  box,'  says  she.  *  Gut  the  box  into  the 
groc'ry  store,  on  purpose,'  says  she.  ( Haf ' 
to  be  orful  careful  not  to  jom  silk,'  says 
she ;  '  mother  'd  kill  me  ef  I  jommed  it,' 
says  she.  1 1  did  n't  wear  it  but  once,'  says 
she,  '  'cause  the  second  Sunday  it  rained  an' 
I  darsn't,  but  I  hed  ter  hev  it  'long  with 
me/  says  she,  '  folks  allus  does.  But  I  hev 
ter  be  terrible  careful  of  it,'  says  she,  '  not 
to  jom  it.' ' 


CHAPTEE  XVH 

THE    FALL    OF    ANGEL 

"  I  COULD  N'T  never  trim  hats  good,  my- 
self, an'  that 's  why  I  took  it  over  'shore. 
An'  Angel  trims  'em  so  nice  seems  as  if  some 
the  folks  over  to  the  village  look  acttially 
pretty  in  'em,  sometimes,  an'  no  mistake. 
Miss  Hanna  did  real  handsome  by  Angel, 
gettin'  her  learned  the  millinery  business, 
over  to  Rye.  Yes,  indeed.  Not  bein'  own 
folks.  An'  Angel's  a  credit  to  her  when 
all 's  said  'n'  done,  seein'  she  never  did  hev 
no  parents  nor  no  antecestry  whatever,  fer  's 
we  know,  'cause  of  course  the  paper  she  hed 
pinned  to  her  baby  dress,  in  that  box  she 
come  in,  warn't  no  real  pedigree,  although 
Miss  Hanna  allus  kep'  it  real  careful  in  the 
'riginal  raisin  box  with  the  dress,  an'  it 


122      A  LIGHTHOUSE   VILLAGE 

wuz  'n  elegant  one,  my  land  !  I  should  say 
so  !  Time  an'  agin  I  've  laid  thet  little  yel- 
ler  paper  in  my  hand  an'  read  the  readin', 
an'  somehow  I  allus  felt,  an'  I  do  now,  thet 
thet  little  paper  seemed  to  tell  how  Angel 
hed  a  mother  once. 

" '  My  little  Angel,'  —  well,  't  ain't  much 
to  say,  but  I  never  could  seem  to  git  red  of 
the  notion  that  somethin'  inside  thet  paper, 
or  back  or  front  of  it,  sounded  as  ef  thet 
mother  didn't  want  to  fetch  Angel  to  the 
doorsteps,  an'  she  'd  ben  kinder  made  to  hev 
to.  That 's  how  it  allus  looked  to  me,  as  I 
say. 

"  An'  often  I  Ve  said  to  Miss  Hanna, 
I  've  said,  '  She  ain't  none  o'  our  folks, 
ma'am,  no,  she  ain't  none  o'  us,  an'  her 
ways  ain't  goin'  to  be  our  ways,'  I  says. 
An'  Miss  Hanna  she  never  took  no  counsel. 
My  land,  Angel  wuz  the  light  of  her  eyes  ! 
Poor  Miss  Hanna,  an'  she  keeps  her  blinds 
down  the  whole  week  through,  these  days. 
An'  Angel  grown  up  so  pert,  an'  so  sperited, 


THE   FALL   OF  ANGEL          123 

an'  so  sassy,  an'  so  handsome  it  fair  made 
yer  eyes  ache  ter  see  her !  Time  an'  again 
I  've  said  to  Miss  Hanna, ( Angel 's  bound  to 
marry  a  man,  an'  none  o'  our  boys,  either,' 
I  said,  time  an'  again.  An'  Miss  Hanna 
would  say  so  proud  an'  feelin',  l  Angel  loves 
only  me,'  an'  time  an'  again  I  've  said, '  You 
ain't  a  man,'  I've  said,  but  Miss  Hanna 
never  marked  my  words. 

"  An'  now  I  wish  I  hed  n't  never  hed 
thet  hat.  Good  land  alive,  who  'd  ever  hev 
thought  I  'd  be  the  one  to  put  a  stumblin' 
block  an'  a  pitfall  in  Angel's  way,  an'  me 
so  worried  'bout  her,  fust  an'  last !  An' 
how  I  did  fuss  an'  bother  gittin'  the  money 
together  fer  thet  hat,  too !  Husband,  he 
wanted  me  to  hev  a  real  hat,  it 's  some  six 
years  now  sence  I  hed  a  real  hat,  an'  still  I 
don't  git  to  meetin'  much,  from  the  light- 
house. An'  Angel  made  me  up  an  elegant 
tall  one,  with  a  kind  of  an  all  round  brim, 
an'  feathers  behind,  an'  kind  o'  knocked  up 
on  one  side,  with  bunched  up  bachelor's 


124       A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

buttons,  an*  black-eyed  Susans,  floppy  an' 
fixy,  —  it  wuz  jest  the  thing  fer  Angel,  an' 
I  paid  her  two  dollars  fer  it  when  I  picked 
out  the  trimmjtn'.  Angel  often  put  it  on, 
while  it  wuz  comin'  'long,  to  show  me  how 
nice  she  looked  in  it  —  I  mean  how  nice  it 
looked  on  her.  An'  now  of  course  I  wisht 
I  hed  n't  never  set  out  to  hev  a  real  hat. 

"  The  ticket  man  seen  her  hev  it  on 
when  she  went  down  the  gang-plank  with 
the  strange  gentleman  two  weeks  ago  Fri- 
day. I  'd  love  to  've  give  Angel  thet  hat, 
out  an'  out,  but  kills  me  to  think  I  ever 
led  little  Angel  astray.  Our  little  Angel ! 

"  I  hope  she  won't  never  lay  herself  out 
to  return  it  to  me.  I  could  n't  bear  to  see 
it,  an'  it  would  be  consid'ble  wore." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A   LIGHTHOUSE   STEW 

THE  dories  swinging  alongside  came  tilt- 
ing against  the  tower  in  the  tide  rip,  and 
bumped  hard,  and  jarred  the  little  gray 
cell  room  where  the  company  sat  waiting  to 
eat.  Ethan  Benedict  was  spread  on  the 
lounge,  with  his  long  legs  set  out  to  trip 
the  host  prettily  as  he  went  to  and  fro  in 
the  breakfast-getting. 

"  Lord !  I  '11  hev  to  hang  up  on  a  nail, 
Colonel,  bum-bye  ! "  he  said,  in  mock  apo- 
logy, as  the  old  lightkeeper  saved  himself 
once  and  again  from  a  fall  over  his  bulky 
visitor. 

"  Tell  you  what  't  is,  Colonel,  you  '11  hev 
to  git  you  a  bigger  lighthouse,  or  git 
smaller  folks  to  come  a-visitin'  ! "  said 
Ethan. 


126      A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

John  was  very  quiet.  This  light  was 
his  old  stamping-ground.  That  was  the 
very  lounge  where  he  used  to  sleep  out  his 
watches.  He  was  thinking  of  Jim,  poor  old 
beggar.  This  big,  bothersome,  hollow  pil- 
lar up  through  the  middle  of  the  tower, 
this  was  where  the  deuced  clock  weight  of 
the  lantern  used  to  go  thundering  down  to 
the  cellar  when  the  chain  broke.  And 
Hiram  himself  was  twisted  up  in  the  same 
old  trick  of  trying  to  set  a  sociable  table  in 
this  little  round  cell  with  the  pillar  in  the 
middle,  and  the  stove,  and  the  sink,  and  the 
lounge,  and  the  company  filling  it  up. 

"  Ever  see  Jim  these  times  ?  "  said  Ethan, 
harking  back  from  the  stew  to  other  days. 
"  Now  warn't  he  double  peculiar !  Allus 
thought  Jim  wuz  jest  about  twenty-five 
cents  out  of  a  quarter  short,  myself;  eh, 
boys  ?  Must  'a*  nigh  killed  yer  with  that 
ole  cornet  o'  his'n,  John.  I  used  to  hear 
him  over  on  the  shore  road  blowin'  them 
seven  tunes  he  did  n't  know,  till  the  guv'- 


A  LIGHTHOUSE   STEW          127 

ment  took  a  holt  an'  set  on  him,  when  the 
ole  Samuel  Adams  took  his  old  pipe  for  a 
fog-signal,  an'  got  on  the  rocks  accordin'. 
Ahem !  Colonel,  how 's  the  fodder  pro- 
gressin'  ?  " 

Old  Hiram  Huxtable  was  a  colonel  only 
by  Ethan's  courtesy.  Years  before,  as  he 
said,  he  had  passed  a  short  time  in  the 
army,  but  no  one  ever  knew  what  he  did 
there.  The  conviction  that  he  had  been 
some  kind  of  a  servant  of  his  country  had 
weighed  heavily  in  getting  him  a  "guv'- 
ment"  position,  but  it  was  the  very  irony 
of  the  reward  to  set  him  down  at  Sculpin 
Ledge  Light.  He  hated  salt  water,  and  he 
was  "  scared  blue  "  in  a  boat.  The  smallest 
kind  of  a  dory  could  lay  a  course  for  him 
any  way  of  the  wind  and  tide,  and  the  salti- 
est old  salt  would  have  been  barely  at  home 
on  Sculpin  Ledge.  And  once  there,  Hiram 
was  bound  to  stay.  Ethan  and  John  soon 
found  out  how  things  were,  and  used  to 
come  over  with  his  stores,  and  his  mail,  and 


128      A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

whatever.  Hiram  could  fly  a  towel  from 
the  gallery  and  have  an  attendant  at  once. 
But  whether  or  not  Hiram  ever  shot  hu- 
man beings,  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  war, 
he  was  a  dabster  after  sea-fowl.  Innocent 
coots  and  wild  geese  that  took  no  alarm  at 
that  brown  chimney  in  the  sea,  came  down 
in  passing  to  go  into  the  old  lightkeeper's 
kettle.  The  boys  liked  stew,  too,  and  the 
towel  had  hailed  them  out  that  very  morn- 
ing. Ethan  admired  to  eat ;  he  often  said 
so,  and  allowed  that  Hiram  could  cook  bet- 
ter than  he  could,  which  was  true. 

"  Gittin'  in  nuff  seasonin',  Colonel,  into 
that  —  ere  —  well,  what  jest  do  yer  call 
that  ere,  sir  ?  "  said  Ethan,  with  too  much 
pride  to  peep. 

Hiram  was  opening  the  lid  of  the  kettle, 
adding  a  dash  of  salt,  and  bent  an  inscrut- 
able look  on  Ethan. 

"  Ever  eat  stooed  sea-gull  ?  "  he  asked. 

Ethan's  expression  was  as  nimble  as  his 
wits,  and  he  gave  no  sign  of  disappointment. 


A  LIGHTHOUSE   STEW          129 

"  Lord,  no !  but  I  ain't  agin  beginning 
ef  I  ain't  too  old  to  learn.  I  gut  to  git  on 
shore  'fore  sundown,  however,  Colonel,  an' 
I  better  begin  quick  ef  I  've  gut  to  chew 
long  !  Lord !  I  've  eat  biled  crow,  time  an' 
agin.  Only  pelican.  I  can't  go  pelican, 
nor  my  brother.  I  'd  hev  to  leave  you, 
Colonel,  ef  it  wuz  pelican  in  the  pot.  Rec'- 
lect  them  peeps,  John,  we  hed  when  you 
wuz  keepin'  here  ?  We  hed  'em  into  a  stoo, 
but  some  folks  likes  peep  pie.  Lord  !  takes 
ez  much  ez  forty  peeps  to  a  sizable  pie, 
now,  don't  it?  Ain't  more  'n  a  mouthful 
to  a  peep,  by  Jove,  but  good  when  you  git 
it.  Beats  yer  coots  all  holler,"  he  said 
towards  Hiram. 

"  Ahem,"  said  Hiram,  putting  on  his 
glasses  to  dust  in  pepper  now. 

"  An'  then  there 's  plover,  John.  Plover 
pie 's  good,  too,  an'  I  got  a  brother  kin  cook 
yer  up  ez  nice  a  mess  of  wild  geese,  now,  ez 
ever  yer  'd  want  ter  eat.  Poor  ole  feller  ; 
he  's  sick  now.  Won't  never  cook  no  more. 


130       A  LIGHTHOUSE   VILLAGE 

But  he  up  an'  eat  a  fish  dinner  't  other  day, 
an'  ast  after  the  folks.  Now  warn't  that 
interestin'  ?  "  Ethan  loped  out  to  keep  an 
eye  on  the  dories,  fretting  at  their  lines 
as  the  tide  lisped  round  the  tower.  The 
sun  was  now  high,  pouring  in  at  the  small 
porthole  windows,  and  falling  cheerily  on 
the  shining  stove  and  the  shining  pot  that 
promised  great  things  as  it  bubbled  and 
purred,  and  sent  off  a  far-reaching  fra- 
grance of  onions  and  game  that  quickly 
called  Ethan  in  again. 

Hiram  dished  out  the  stew  in  platefuls 
from  the  steaming  pot,  and  they  dragged 
chairs  up  round  the  table  at  his  bidding. 

They  spooned  it,  and  clattered,  and 
sipped,  and  sucked  in  silence,  till  the  bone- 
piles  had  risen  high  between  the  plates,  and 
the  guests  tilted  back  in  their  chairs  and 
sighed  with  a  great  and  deep  satisfaction. 

"Colonel,"  said  Ethan,  with  an  air,  "you 
done  yerself  proud  on  thet  stoo.  Never  'd 
mistrusted  it  wuz  sea-gull  ef  you  hedn't 


A  LIGHTHOUSE   STEW          131 

give  it  away.  I  'd  'a'  most  thought,  now, 
it  wuz  coots  —  three,  four  reg'lar  coots. 
You  done  yerself  proud,  sir  !  I  'm  glad  I 
come !  I  dunno  when  I  've  eat  so  hearty 
of  stoo  myself,  but  I  must  say  I  do  know  a 
stoo  when  I  see  one,  an'  that  stoo,  Colonel, 
—  thet  wuz  a  stoo,  sir !  " 
"  Ever  eat  loon  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HIS   FAVORITE   TUNE 

"  I  'VE  —  er  —  called  this  meetin'  to- 
gether, friends,  Captain  Hopkins,  sir,  an* 
Deacon  Willow  —  ahem  —  to  do  suitable 
respect  to  the  —  er  —  the  honored  mem'ry 
of  our  departed  brother  an'  neighbor,  Ebe- 
neezer  Cook,  gentlemen." 

Deacon  Stowell  rose  and  lifted  off  the 
red-hot  front  stove  lids,  and  the  three 
friends  rocked  back  to  a  comfortable  dis- 
tance from  the  fiery  furnace.  The  snow- 
laden  wind  searched  for  them  at  the 
windows,  and  dared  them  out  of  doors 
again. 

"  Looks  like  we  'd  hev  poor  buryin* 
weather,"  murmured  gentle  Deacon  Willow. 

t(  Likely   to  drift   up   consid'ble  on   the 


HIS  FAVOEITE  TUNE  133 

buryin'  ground  road,  comin'  in  so  frum  the 
east'ard,"  said  Captain  Hopkins  sociably. 

"  To  continner,"  Deacon  Stowell  resumed 
with  suggestive  emphasis,  "  ez  I  've  re- 
marked—  er  —  previously  —  it's  my  idee, 
bein'  close  friends  of  Ebeneezer's,  you  an* 
me,  Captain  Hopkins  an'  Deacon  Willow 
—  we  ought  ter  kinder  make  preparations, 
so  to  speak,  f er  f  ollerin'  out  —  er  —  our  — 
ahem !  respected  brother's  wishes,  respectin' 
thet  ere  toon  o'  his  'n." 

"  Same  toon  he  allus  sung  rowin'  in  shore 
frum  his  vessil,  I  take  it,"  said  Captain 
Hopkins. 

"  Yes,  sir,  same,  sir  —  thet 's  it,  an'  day- 
times, too,  an'  Sundays.  Seems  he  never 
could  n't  ketch  a-holt  of  no  other,  an'  he  — 
er  —  meanin'  no  disrespec',  he  did  n't  mean 
to  leave  a-holt  of  it.  Now,  Ebeneezer  — 
er  —  he  allus  hed  me  promise  I  'd  hev 
thet  toon  sung  to  his  funeral,  an'  —  er  — 
it  ain't  no  Sunday  toon,  gentlemen,  an'  I 
ain't  sure  the  parson  would  agree.  So  it 's 


134      A  LIGHTHOUSE   VILLAGE 

jest  my  idee,  gentlemen,  Captain  Hopkins 
an'  Deacon  Willow,  fer  you  'n  me  ter  kinder 
jine  ourselves  in  the  singin'  of  it,  comin'  in 
'long  astern  o'  the  hearse,  gentlemen." 

"  Me  !  I  can't  sing  a  damned  note  !  "  said 
Captain  Hopkins  stoutly. 

"  I  dunno  the  words,"  said  Deacon  Wil- 
low, "  but  I  guess  I  could  make  out  ter  kinder 
la-la  'long." 

"Beginnin'  abreast  the  post  office,"  said 
Deacon  Stowell,  laying  the  course  neatly, 
"  an'  on'y  singin'  one  verse,  we  'd  git  done 
'bout  down  t'  the  fork  o'  the  roads,  an'  not 
disturb  the  reg'lar  ceremonies  none." 

"  I  tell  ye  I  can't  sing  a  damned  note  !  " 
said  the  captain  earnestly. 

"  I  dunno  no  words,"  Deacon  Willow  re- 
minded them  again. 

"Well,"  said  Deacon  Stowell,  "we  must 
do  the  best  we  kin,  gentlemen,  unitin'  to- 
gether, t'  honor  —  er  —  our  friend,  Ebenee- 
zer  Cook,  in  his  departure.  I  '11  do  the  heft 
o'  the  toon  myself,  an'  you,  Deacon  Willow 


HIS   FAVORITE   TUNE  135 

an'  Captain  Hopkins,  hum  along  ez  fur's 
you  're  able  'long  o'  me,  so  's  I  won't  be 
hollerin'  out  alone,  gentlemen.  Yes,  sir, 
we  '11  do  our  dooty  —  er  —  by  Ebeneezer." 

The  long  procession  of  country  sleighs 
and  folks  on  foot  lengthened  out  solemnly 
down  the  village  street  from  the  church, 
between  the  piled-up  drifts.  The  three 
friends,  muffled  in  great-coats  and  caps, 
walked  together  behind  the  hearse,  stum- 
bling heavily  through  the  deep  snow.  Just 
beyond  the  post  office  a  curious  sound 
arose.  The  mourners  leaned  out  of  their 
sleighs  to  look  and  listen,  and  the  villagers 
ranged  along  the  roadside  gazed  and  won- 
dered, till  the  graceless  murmur  behind  the 
hearse  rose  to  more  assured  melody,  and 
everybody  knew  it  for  "  Ebeneezer's  toon." 
Many  and  many  a  summer  night  the  cap- 
tain's home-coming  had  sung  itself  in  at 
the  open  doors  of  the  little  seaport  town  as 
the  "  toon  "rang  out  on  the  bay.  And  now 
it  would  ring  across  sea  and  land  no  more. 


136      A  LIGHTHOUSE   VILLAGE 

One  voice  and  another  took  it  up,  and 
presently  a  queer,  strong  chorus  was  singing 
along  behind  the  dead  man,  tenderly  mind- 
ful of  "  the  other  day :"  — 

"  Hail  Columbia, 

Happy  land ! 

Hail  ye  heroes, 

Heaven-born  ban'." 

And  far  away  up  the  white  hillside,  from 
the  shore  road  the  last  lines  came  back  :  — 

"  That  fought  and  fit  and 

Bled  and  died  ; 
Hail  Co  —  lum  —  bye  —  a  !" 


CHAPTER  XX 

HONORABLE    JACKSON    JONES 

"  BIRDS  is  queer  fowl.  Now  when  I  wuz 
over  on  Homer  Shoal  Light,  the  durndest 
paper  come  one  day  from  the  Gover'ment. 
Ever  hear  about  that?  Thunderin'  big  en- 
vylope,  wrote  large  on  the  outside  an'  let- 
tered big  on  the  corner.  Thinks,  says  I  to 
myself, i  Here 's  my  walkin'-papers,  sure  as  a 
gun.  Now  what  the  devil  hev  I  ben  up  to, 
to  git  fired  an'  me  not  know  it? '  So  I  opened 
the  envylope  an'  turned  out  the  inside,  an' 
there 't  wuz,  nothin'  but  a  kind  of  a  f  ormulee, 
a  lot  o'  printin'  here  an'  there,  an'  place  fer 
me  ter  say  where  I  wuz  an'  who  I  be,  'fore 
I  done  any  more. 

"  Seems  it  wuz  frum  Honorable  Jackson 
Jones,  or  some  sich,  of  the  Smithtonian  In- 


138      A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

stitoot,  gittin'  the  privilege  of  the  Light- 
house Board  to  allow  himself  t'  ask  me,  an' 
a  lot  more  polite  stuff  like  that,  ter  kinder 
'sist  him  with  his  nat'chel  hist'ry  goin's-on. 
I  see  there  wuz  a  mistake,  not  bein'  that  way 
myself.  The  fool  questions  on  that  paper 
wuz  clean  outer  my  line  o'  business.  Ast 
when  I  see  the  fust  robin,  an'  the  last 
tree-toad,  an*  which  way  wuz  he  jumpin', 
an'  so  forth.  I  see  it  come  frum  my  post- 
office  address  not  bein'  the  same  ez  my  home 
address.  Now  my  post-office  address  is  Mr. 
Ethan  Benedict,  Esq.,  Woodside,  Maine. 
Thet  's  where  my  letters  come.  An'  I  lived 
out  on  Homer  Shoal  Light,  in  ten  feet  o' 
water.  Thet 's  where  I  come.  So,  not  hev- 
in*  no  personal  acquaintance  with  me,  ez  I 
know  on,  Mr.  Jones  he  nat'chelly  concluded 
I  lived  over  to  Woodside,  an'  ri'  down  in  the 
middle  o'  them  birds  an'  snakes  an'  other 
vermin  he  wanted  so  bad  to  hear  frum. 

"  Well,  so  I  went  over  his  paper  careful, 
thinkin'  I  might  give  him  some  information 


HONORABLE  JACKSON  JONES     139 

off'n  the  farm  where  I  wuz  raised.  But 
Lord  !  I  could  n't  remember  when  I  see  the 
fust  or  the  last  o'  any  one  fowl.  I  never 
did  care  no  gret  fer  flyin'  things.  They 
come  an'  they  went,  an'  devil  I  cared  where 
an*  when  they  flew,  long  ez  they  did  n't  hit 
me. 

"Well,  thinkin'  his  paper  over,  I  seen  it 
wuz  most  likely  he  wanted  to  hear  f rum  them 
birds  thet  wuz  due  long  in  the  spring.  It 
wuz  Christmas  when  I  gut  the  letter.  So  I 
set  down  to  turn  it  over,  thinkin'  back  along. 
Now  it 's  jest  this  way  with  a  bird.  Fust 
you  see  him  an'  then  you  don't,  dependin' 
on  what  you  're  doin'  an'  whether  he  's  in  a 
hurry  or  not.  Now  when  it  comes  along 
fall,  mebbe  I  look  over  on  Sculpin  Shoal 
some  day,  an'  says  to  myself,  e  Gulls  is  late 
this  year,'  an'  the  very  next  day  mebbe  I  see 
thet  shoal  covered  thick  —  allus  is,  'bout 
fust  of  September  anyway.  Now  I  look  at 
it  this  way :  ef  I M  ben  ashore  thet  day,  like 
ez  not  I  would  n't  'a'  seen  them  gulls,  an'  so 


140      A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

how  could  I  'a'  helped  Mr.  Jones  with  his 
f  ormulee  ?  Said  a  lot  on  the  back  about  not 
sayin'  what  you  hed  n't  seen,  an'  then  says, 
'  When  'd  you  see  the  fust  gull  ? '  an'  so 
forth.  I  call  it  confusin'. 

"  An'  same  with  robins.  Ef  I  see  a 
robin  an'  take  notice  an'  bum-bye  see  an- 
other one,  how  'm  I  goin'  to  tell  whether  the 
fust  one  I  seen  wuz  the  last  one  ?  I  call  it 
a  fool  question,  myself,  askin'  a  man  how 
many  robins  he  seen  a  day,  when  they 
warn't  tagged. 

"  Well  —  there  wuz  a  lot  I  could  'a'  told 
him,  too,  thet  did  n't  show  up  under  no  head 
in  his  f  ormulee.  I  seen  a  golden  oriole  set- 
tin'  in  broad  noon  an'  sun  on  the  top  of  the 
lighthouse  half  an  hour,  an'  out  of  oriole 
season  too.  An'  I  seen  a  carrier-pigeon  set 
on  the  boathouse  'n  hour  'n'  a  half  one  time. 
An'  I  seen  forty  plover  set  on  the  rail  o'  the 
gallery  in  a  fog  like  folks  round  a  fire,  an' 
look  in  the  winder  at  me  windin'  the  lamp  up. 
Lord !  I  could  n't  lay  a  finger  on  them 


HONORABLE  JACKSON  JONES    141 

live  ones.  They  wuz  allus  plenty  banged 
their  heads  flat  agin  the  glass  an'  laid  stone 
dead  round  the  ground  when  I  wuz  over  to 
Round  Island.  I  used  to  send  a  mess  over 
to  the  Homer  Shoal  folks  them  days,  an' 
when  I  changed  over,  the  Round  Island 
folks  sent  the  mess  to  me,  thet  's  how  it  wuz. 
Why,  them  folks  hez  picked  up  seventeen 
kinds  o'  small  birds  dead  one  single  night 
o'  fog  —  half  a  bushel,  I  should  jedge. 
Seemed  too  bad  to  heave  'em  overboard,  but 
warn't  no  other  way.  Cat  wuz  full  to  bust, 
an'  we  hed  to  clean  up  the  grounds  'cordin' 
to  orders.  An'  I  've  hed  me  a  black  duck 
come  right  in  the  lantern  window,  glass  half 
an  inch  thick.  I  dunno  how  he  done  it  my- 
self. But  there  he  wuz,  an'  we  set  a  new 
pane  quick  as  we  could  an'  ast  a  blessing 
over  him  f er  supper.  An'  I  seen  storks  over 
to  Round  Island,  an'  wild  geese  —  Why  I 
seen  a  wild  goose  asleep  !  right  under  the 
end  o'  the  island  one  time,  head  under  his 
wing.  My  Lord  !  if  Mr.  Honorable  What 's 


his-name  bed  ben  round  tben  witb  bis  gig- 
lamps  I  guess  be  'd  'a'  hopped  quick!  An'  I 
seen  puffins  here,  an'  a  whale,  an'  sharks,  an' 
other  sich,  'peared  be  wanted  to  hear  frum 
them  kind,  too. 

"  Well,  I  wrote  him  back,  polite  ez  I  could 
make  it,  thet  I  'd  forgut  what  I  bed  see,  an* 
when  I  'd  seen  it,  an'  enclosed  bis  paper.  I 
told  him  I  guessed  the  address  wuz  the  bot- 
tom of  the  trouble,  but  no  barm  done  this 
time  round.  I  told  him  the  names  o'  two 
three  folks  over  to  the  mainland  I  guessed 
could  set  him  up  all  right,  the  Cong'gational 
minister,  an'  the  Editor  of  the  Woodside 
Enterprise,  an'  so  forth.  But  my  Lord ! 
Makes  me  laugh  every  time  I  meet  a  robin, 
sence  thet  time.  '  Fust  or  last  ? '  says  I, 
6  yer  durned  little  beggar  !  Last  or  fust  ? ' ' 


CHAPTEE  XXI 

ALICE 

THERE  was  a  little  procession  on  the  way 
to  the  cemetery  late  one  Sunday  afternoon. 
Mother  Padelford  was  going  to  decorate 
Ed's  grave,  and  John's.  The  soldiers' 
graves  had  been  decorated  by  the  town 
weeks  before,  but  Ed  was  not  a  soldier. 

They  walked  soberly  down  the  quaint 
harbor  side  streets,  —  Beulah  and  Mother 
Padelford  and  little  Cousin  Abijah.  A  few 
Sabbath-day  loungers  stood  about  the  fish- 
wharves,  and  some  of  the  young  people  of 
the  town  passed  by,  walking  two  by  two, 
all  old  friends  and  neighbors;  but  the 
Padelfords,  in  stiff,  new  mourning  set  apart 
from  light  greetings,  were  regarded  with 
awe  and  deference.  Mother  Padelford 


144      A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

bowed  solemnly,  and  the  children  exchanged 
glances.  Abijah  carried  the  flowers  for  his 
uncle's  grave  and  for  "  Jack's,"  —  two  big 
bunches  of  lilac  in  a  forest  of  ribbon  grass. 
He  was  swinging  them  by  his  side,  the  trail- 
ing streamers  of  grass  dragging  tattered  in 
the  dust. 

"  Hold  them  flowers  up,  nice,  son,"  said 
Mrs.  Padelford.  "  They  won't  look  fit  to 
set  on  yer  uncle's  grave,  time  you  git 
there." 

The  little  procession  filed  in  at  a  narrow 
gateway  that  seemed  to  lead  into  deep  woods, 
and  gathered  round  a  fresh  mound  of  earth 
on  the  edge  of  a  clearing,  still  far  away 
from  the  crowded  graves  in  the  larger  ceme- 
tery. This  was  the  humbler  "  lot  "  section. 

"  It 's  real  kinder  sweet  here,  like  meetin', 
now  ain't  it,  ef  we  couldn't  afford  to  lay 
him  'long  with  the  rest  of  'em  up  yonder." 
Mother  Padelford  dropped  down  onto  the 
turf  at  the  foot  of  the  mound,  tired  and 
warm  and  full  of  new  sorrow. 


ALICE  145 

"  So  there  he  lays  !  He  was  all  I  hed  in 
the  world,  'ceptin'  the  children.  Poor  Ed ! 
An'  warn't  he  terrible  long !  There  he  lays. 
Most  six  feet,  he  wuz,  in  his  stockin'  feet, 
when  he  wuz  alive,  Ed  wuz." 

Her  tearful  eyes  rested  presently  on  the 
pretty  pond  below  the  hill,  blue  and  still  in 
its  rim  of  sedge,  and  overhung  with  trees. 

"  I  kinder  wish  Alice  hed  hed  her  John 
laid  here  by  Ed.  They  did  set  so  much  by 
each  other ;  an'  prob'ly  it 's  prettier  here 
than  't  is  where  he  lays  now.  But  I  dunno. 
I  hev  n't  seen  it,  an'  I  dunno  as  Alice  hed 
the  say  of  it,  anyway  ;  most  prob'ly  not,  not 
bein'  nothin'  to  him  as  you  might  say.  You 
go  git  some  water,  sonny,  out'n  the  pond, 
fer  his  flowers  and  father's,  an*  we  '11  be 
gittin*  along  to  John. 

"  Them  pansies  grows  handsome  on  fa- 
ther's grave.  They  allus  is  a  real  grave- 
yard flower.  I'm  glad  I  took  some  for 
John's  grave,  too.  Well,  we'll  be  goin' 
now.  We  '11  git  father  a  real  good  head- 


146       A  LIGHTHOUSE   VILLAGE 

stone  as  soon  as  you  git  you  a  job,  Abijah. 
I  don't  seem  to  like  to  Lev  him  lay  without 
one." 

The  little  procession  straggled  up  the 
winding  path  across  the  main  cemetery, 
halting  again  on  the  far  edge  under  thick- 
set trees. 

"  Well,  I  do  believe  John  's  got  the  best 
place,  after  all,"  said  Mother  Padelford. 
"  But  I  don't  gredge  him.  John  wuz  a 
good  boy,  Johnnie  wuz. 

"  Let 's  see.  Here  's  two  graves,  an* 
how  'm  I  ter  know  which  from  t'other.  Oh  ! 
I  know  !  The  sexton  said  John  's  wuz  the 
one  next  the  fence.  Yes,  here  it  is.  This 
is  John's.  The  other  one  is  that  stranger's 
the  town  buried.  The  dirt  is  kinder  poor, 
an*  thet  's  a  fact.  Sexton  said  it  wuz ;  said  I  'd 
hev  ter  hev  some  good  dirt  put  on  ter  make 
flowers  grow  in  it.  I  guess  I  '11  git  Alice 
ter  git  thet  dirt,  seein'  how  she  set  such  a 
lot  by  John,  when  they  come  down  from 
Boston.  They  allus  do  come  down  in  June, 


ALICE  147 

mostly,  only  this  year  they  don't  seem  to  be 
gittin'  here  so  early.  I  dunno  why.  Alice 
did  think  such  a  pile  of  John,  you  'd  think 
they  'd  want  ter  be  right  round  where  he 
used  to  be ;  but  I  dunno. 

"  Tur'ble  genteel  folks,  they  be,  —  them 
Van  Beauregards.  John,  he  did  n't  belong 
with  thet  kind  no  more  'n  I  do.  He  warn't 
only  a  lightkeeper  —  but  them  two  wuz 
allus  together  summers.  And  times  he  'd 
go  down  to  Boston.  John  never  wuz  fer 
talkin'  much  'bout  Alice,  an'  I  guess  most 
likely  it  wuz  all  along  of  his  likin'  her  con- 
sid'ble.  Some  folks  is  thet  way ;  an'  after 
all  it  don't  make  no  odds  one  way  or  t'other, 
an'  I  allus  calk'lated  John  knowed  his  own 
business  best.  Folks  said  they  wuz  real  en- 
gaged, but  I  allus  held  to  it  in  my  own 
mind  thet  John  would  'a'  told  me  ef  it  hed 
ben ;  an'  no  matter  how  they  did  reckon 
themselves,  I  guess  they  warn't  fer  marryin' 
anybody  else  in  a  hurry.  That 's  how  it 
looked  ter  me,  an'  I  guess  Alice  '11  git  the 


148      A  LIGHTHOUSE  VILLAGE 

dirt  fast  'nuff  when  I  tell  her  how  't  is  'bout 
a  graveyard  an'  flowers  growin'.  I  really 
think  ef  they  hed  ben  real  engaged  John 
would  'a'  told  me  'fore  he  died,  though  he 
died  kinder  sudden  at  the  last.  I  dunno, 
I  'm  sure,  how  poor  John  would  'a'  done, 
livin'  right  into  the  Van  Beauregard  family. 
He  hed  n't  no  manners  at  all,  —  thet  is,  no 
table  manners,  —  an'  them  Van's  kep'  a  real 
genteel  table  the  whole  time,  company  or 
not.  John  he  used  to  say  to  me,  'Lots  o' 
dishes,  marm,'  he  'd  say,  '  table  all  covered 
with  'em,'  says  he,  '  but  darned  little  vittles 
on  'em.'  John  allus  wuz  a  gret  hand  ter 
live.  So  I  expect  they  wuz  real  fashionable 
folks,  besides  their  clo'es. 

"He  an'  Alice  wuz  together  two  whole 
summers,  an'  I  should  think  she  'd  miss  him 
a  lot.  She  hain't  ben  down,  though,  sence 
the  funeral.  Awful  pitiful  funeral,  John's 
wuz.  He  did  n't  hev  no  folks,  on'y  friends, 
an'  the  Odd  Fellows  follered  the  body. 
Warn't  thet  real  sad  !  An'  I  've  heard  say 


ALICE  149 

sence  then  thet  lots  of  people  with  folks  be- 
longing to  'em  on  both  sides  hes  n't  hed 
sech  a  big  f  ollering  as  John  hed.  He  wuz 
tur'ble  pop'lar.  An'  Alice  wuz  there,  they 
said,  on'y  nobody  seen  her ;  she  did  n't  git 
out  at  the  grave. 

"  So  here 's  his  grave,  poor  John  !  He 
knowed  I  would  n't  fergit  him,  poor  boy  ! 
Ef  he  could  think,  down  there,  I  guess  I  know 
what  he  'd  be  sayin'.  He  'd  say  I  would  n't 
fergit  him,  an'  I  ain't.  Children,  we  must 
git  him  a  good  headstone  jest  as  soon  as  we 
can.  Why,  ain't  them  real  handsome  flow- 
ers, now,  in  thet  glass  dish  on  the  stranger's 
grave !  I  don't  believe  a  mite  but  what 
they  wuz  meant  fer  John,  'cause  thet  stran- 
ger he  did  n't  hev  no  friends,  an'  of  course 
they  would  n't  put  flowers  on  his  grave.  I 
should  n't  wonder  a  mite  ef  Alice  brought 
'em  down  an'  mistook  the  grave.  Like  as 
not.  I  shall  ask  her  the  first  chance  I  git, 
fer  of  course  she  '11  feel  bad  to  know  she  'd 
mistook  the  grave.  An'  now  they  ain't  no 


150       A  LIGHTHOUSE   VILLAGE 

good.  I  s'pose  they  've  took  away  the  em- 
'lim  off'n  John 's  grave,  the  one  the  light- 
house folks  sent  over.  Said  '  Our  Friend ' 
in  kinder  everlastin's,  an'  I  did  n't  know 
but  what  I  could  git  letters  nuff  off'n  it  ter 
spell  '  John/  ter  keep,  but  somebody 's  took 
it  away.  Prob'ly  the  sexton's  give  it  to 
Alice. 

"  Poor  John  !  He  did  n't  never  think  of 
death  an'  dyin'.  I  don't  believe  he  wuz 
ever  in  a  cemetery  in  his  life  till  he  wuz 
took  in.  An'  he  wuz  so  tur'ble  reckless,  so 
tur'ble  full  of  life  ter  die.  He  wuz  reckless 
an'  heady,  Johnnie  wuz.  I  used  t'  say  to 
him  not  ter  go  off  t'  the  main  shore  in  bad 
weather,  or  back  agin,  but  sure  as  anybody 
wanted  an  errant  done,  John  he  wuz  at  it. 
I  'd  jaw  him  t'  keep  him  ter  home,  but  he 
wuz  jest  one  man  in  fifty  t'  handle  a  boat,  an' 
seemed  he  'd  come  off  sound  so  many  times 
he  did  n't  hev  no  real  rightful  sense  o'  dan- 
ger. An'  it  wuz  kinder  misleadin'  to  the 
ignorant  of  the  water,  'cause  he  warn't  scared 


ALICE  151 

times  when  he  'd  oughter  ben,  an'  he  'd  tell 
folks  they  wuz  safe  t'  go  in  weathers  when 
they  wuz  n't. 

"I  —  it  makes  me  real  sad  ter  think  over 
John.  He  said  once  when  I  wuz  at  him  not 
ter  go  one  time  it  blowed  heavy,  says  he, 
'  Mann,'  says  he,  —  allus  called  me  '  Marm,' 
{  ef  I  'm  ever  drownded,  hope  it  '11  be  be- 
tween the  lighthouse  an'  Nob  Noller  Point ; ' 
an'  't  was.  Drownded  right  where  he  said  ter 
be.  An'  all  ter  git  thet  fool  woman  ashore 
ter  git  her  bonnet  made,  for  Easter,  thet 
Jordan  woman,  when  the  next  day  would  'a' 
done  her,  an'  jest  because  she  ast  him  !  She 
feels  real  bad  now,  an'  I  should  think  she 
would.  Awful  still  an'  lonesome  here  fer 
John.  He  allus  wuz  real  lively.  I  guess 
he  'd  never  'a'  thought  he  'd  'a'  ben  a-layin' 
here  under  the  trees.  Seems  as  ef  mebbe 
he  'd  'a'  liked  ter  laid  'long  the  shore,  some- 
wheres. 

"  Well,  I  declare,  what 's  the  matter  with 
you,  Beulah  ?  Lord  !  hush  up,  child,  you  '11 


152       A  LIGHTHOUSE   VILLAGE 

kill  yourself  cryin'  so.  Why,  I  would  n't  'a' 
come  ef  I  'd  known  you  wuz  goin'  ter  feel 
bad.  Git  right  up  off'n  thet  grave,  Beulah, 
an'  don't  you  fret,  child !  I  feel  real  bad 
myself,  too.  I  allus  did  feel  like  a  mother 
to  Johnnie.  Poor  Johnnie !  There,  hush 
up,  Beulah !  We  '11  go  'long  home  right 
off. 

"  Poor  John  !  I  shell  cdme  up  here  real 
often,  an'  set  awhile.  An'  I  shell  speak  ter 
Alice  'bout  thet  dirt,  the  fust  chance  I  git. 
She  set  sech  a  lot  by  John." 


ftitoergibe 

Electrotyfed  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghion  &•  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


A     000  040  643     9 


